


tomorrow, not yesterday

by dindi



Series: sun, moon & earth [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Bottom Miya Atsumu, Dirty Talk af, Dom Kita, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Like so light it’s fluffy, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Time Skip, Praise Kink, Puppy Play, Slice of Life, Slow Burn.....sort of, Spanking, Switch Sakusa Kiyoomi, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dindi/pseuds/dindi
Summary: Atsumu wanders around the produce aisle wondering which vegetable is best paired with an apologetic admission of,“Ain’t it funny? While ya were gone visiting your family, I totally got off to fantasies of my high school volleyball captain.”Picking up an eggplant he thinks,it’s not so bad phrased like that.A ten year reunion brings up some long-buried memories.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu, Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: sun, moon & earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057637
Comments: 165
Kudos: 616
Collections: GHFOAT (greatest haikyuu fics of all time)





	1. to tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ music to listen to while u read~](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ATVKQAgObmFJgDMsqZpJW?si=gICitMR5SKKUQpW-dy1IPA)

It’s a quiet evening, completely inconsequential in the many momentous nights of Atsumu’s life. He leaves his rented house overlooking the botanical gardens of Osaka City University on the border between Hirakata and Katano, the sounds of summer filtering through the swaying trees as he walks to the station wearing his favorite pair of white sneakers. The air smells sweet, the train muggy, and when he gets into Osaka proper, he finds himself walking on his heels in anticipation. 

As soon as he bounds into the smoky izakaya, the smile he didn’t realize he’s already wearing grows ten-fold.

“Yo, Atsumu-kun!” 

“Ya actually made it!”

He slips into the nearest empty chair, between Oomimi and Kosaku and bows his head in apology. ”Sorry, sorry, sorry! Got carried away with my classes,” he offers truthfully. The guys nearest to him clap him on the back.

Flustered, he looks up into Kita’s golden gaze, cheek propped on a loose fist as he eyes him with a good-natured smile. The years have been kind to someone like Kita, the closest of the group to nearing thirty years and tanned skin still taut on his high cheekbones. The hair is slightly longer, tucked behind his ears. Its… a good look. 

“It’s good to see you, Atsumu-kun.” The gods really have it out for Atsumu, if this is going to be his seat for the evening.

“Ah, same to you Kita-san. How’s the farmin’?” 

A shadow of a smile. “Farmin’s farmin’.” 

Aran nudges him. “He’s bein’ modest. Just says he picked up another big buyer in Osaka, ain’t that right, Shin-san?” 

Kita tilts his head slightly, an acknowledgement, warning and admonishment all in one. The famous Kita cocktail. It has sent them all stumbling home in admiration. “I told ya, didn’t I?” 

“Tsumu-kun!” Akagi starts as he’s engaged in talking to the server, “what’re ya drinkin’? I’ll buy ya something for our toast!” 

“Yer our senpai,” Osamu refutes. “He should be buyin’ all _yer_ drinks.” 

“I’m good with the sake,” Atsumu grins ruefully. “But Samu’s closest to ya, so why don’t you pick up the tab, eh, _otouto_?” 

“Shut yer trap. It was like _nine_ minutes. I kicked ya out so I can have some peace an’ quiet.” 

“Or maybe ya were just a slow-poke.”

Suna, arm around his brother’s chair sighs, nostalgic. “Ah, it’s almost like we’re back in high school again.” 

Riseki laughs at that, seated opposite them and sporting a fresh new cut from his fiance, a stylist in Tokyo. “I can’t wait to see what the next ten years looks like for ya, Miya-san.” 

Osamu scoffs and folds his arms to his chest. “I’ll probably’ve offed ‘im by then. Or myself.” 

“ _Oi—"_

“Atsumu,” Kita chides, and that brings Atsumu back down to Earth. “Lower yer voice.” 

“ _Oiiiii…”_ He repeats, emphatically. In a whisper. The table erupts in laughter. 

Looking all around at the guys at the table, Atsumu joins in on the good-natured jabbing (often at his own expense) like the days _really_ haven’t passed them all by. He puts up with it with good cheer. The guys at the Jackals rarely give it to him as badly as his old team hands it to him. 

When the next bottles of sake come to join the now emptied ones, they fill up their glasses and all reach their arms to the center of the table. It reminds him of Nationals in his second year, the same group of boys that turned into men in a blink of an eye. 

Atsumu looks to Kita. “We’re waitin’ for ya, captain.” 

The second their eyes meet, it’s Kita’s graduation day and unlike the fantasies he’d had of walking him to a bench and spilling his heart onto the sakura petal littered concrete, he had waited with the rest of his team in the gymnasium that smelled like moldy bread and salonpas to bow to their captain in respect for a final goodbye. There was no time for private conversation. 

Not much has changed. 

Kita breaks the moment first, and looks to the rest of the team, eyes focused like he's in a huddle, contemplating their next play, or about to make contact with a nasty receive. The sounds of the izakaya patrons filter out until they’re on an orange court with the school band cheering them onto victory. A black banner hangs above them. 

“We may not need things like memories, but it’s good to be sitting with ya all here again,” Kita says. “Yesterday won’t matter when we have tomorrow.” 

Gin swipes his eye as he downs his drink in one go. “Fuck, that was a good toast.” On the other side of him, Aran’s lips wobble in a familiar cool before the storm.

Feeling similarly, Atsumu looks to Kita again before sipping the cool sake. It tickles his throat like it wasn’t just primed for full-out sobbing just a moment before. 

The years really haven’t changed. Kita catches his eye and the corner of his mouth ticks up before calmly sipping his shot. Atsumu’s heart threatens to jump out of his chest. 

They catch up with haste before launching back into familiar banter. Atsumu learns about Akagi’s family dog passing, about the new gymnasium they finally built in that abandoned lot behind the clubroom—but that one doesn’t smell like moldy bread so, _really_ , it’s not the same. Kanako-sensei—Kita, Aran, Atsumu and Riseki’s homeroom teacher their third year—got married to Kosaku’s older brother. It would be more awkward if the rest of the lazy team actually stepped into the 3-A classroom. 

For the second toast, Atsumu is badgered into saying a few words as the second captain of their group. Ever the opportunist, he tells them, “Hopefully you’re all as cool as me in ten years!” And chugs his sake. 

It earns him a smack over his head and an elbow to his gut, but Kita chuckles so Atsumu considers it well worth it. 

Riseki is the final captain to toast, eyes shimmering, “To tomorrow.”

-

Outside, in the simmering heat lingering in the asphalt, they exchange goodbyes and promises to meet in another ten years under the same neon sign. Samu rolls his eyes at Atsumu while they go down the line. No need to be soft with his brother when they’re meeting up for dinner next week anyway. 

They break off into groups heading in opposite directions, some to their cars, homes and the next bar. After punching his brother’s shoulder one last time and confirming dinner, he jogs to catch up with Kita and Aran as they head to the station. 

He shuffles in beside Kita and leans over to address Aran. “Ya headin’ back to Hyogo, tonight?” 

Aran shakes his head. “I have an Auntie in Settsu that I’m stayin’ with.” 

While it’s still a tight secret, Atsumu knows through Samu who was told by Suna who was confided in by Oomimi that Aran has been talking to MSBY sponsors. Maybe it’s not a big secret, but he feels giddy with excitement to be setting for an old ace again. Aran has neither confirmed or denied it. Still, it’s August so there's still time before the season starts in October. Atsumu has learned to be a patient man. 

He hums. “And you, Kita-san?” 

Kita, ever serious says. “I’m taking the train to the station outside of Amagasaki where I parked.” 

“You okay to drive?” Atsumu asks. Because he’s an adult now. 

That gets a polite nod from Kita. “I think I’ll be fine in an hour.” 

On the train platform, Aran’s ride arrives first. He waves. “See ya next week, Shin-san. And you, _doofus!_ I’ll be seein’ ya on the court!” 

“Ya bet!” Atsumu waves back. 

It gets quiet and awkward with Aran’s departure like he just _dreamed up_ all the times he and Kita had made eye contact throughout the night, exchanging smiles and glances like they had a secret.

Atsumu thinks he should’ve taken Riseki up on that last pre-offered sake. He looks up to the screen blinking their line’s arrival times. Three minutes for Kita. Six for Atsumu. 

“So,” he starts. 

Kita hums. A question. 

Reaching behind to scratch at the baby hairs on his neck, Atsumu feels like he’s sixteen again, not the twenty-seven year old man who lives his life in big moments. Getting together with his old team is just another day, nothing like dumping a ball over Oikawa Tooru during their final match at the Olympics, or executing his super quick with Shouyou during the first match up against the Adlers when all of their teams were at their highest potential. Those moments were marked by adrenaline and the hunger he feels in his namesake. Nights like these feel like a bookend. Lazy, unmoving; just another interlude before the next chapter in the story. 

He starts but stops. 

The feminine voice announcing Kita’s train’s arrival feels like a punch to the gut. He looks down at the tracks that are soon covered by the ads adorning the train car. Feet shuffle out.

He stares at the ground and resigns to, “it was good seein’ ya again. Let me know when ya get home safe?” 

In his periphery, Kita stays still. Did he hear him? Atsumu sneaks a peak at Kita’s slightly surprised expression but it morphs into cool empathy just as quickly as he catches it. “Of course. Same goes for ya.” A pause. Warm eyes. “Let’s not wait another ten years again, ya?” 

Atsumu grins, shamelessly pleased. “Ya bet.” 

The train leaves with Kita on it, and on his way home, Atsumu thinks of slightly flushed cheeks from summer heat and the syrupy sweetness of his honey-colored eyes. Objectively, Kita is one of the most beautiful men that Atsumu’s ever known. 

So that’s why when he keys in the code for his house and lines up his shoes in the genkan, he can’t even wait to get to the bedroom before he’s shivering in his tee and jeans. He makes a beeline for the bathroom and lets the clothes slip off his skin. He makes the shower hot and steps in to wrap himself in the cocoon of his imagination. 

Kita’s soft breath huffing at his neck. _“Touch yerself, Atsumu.”_

He does, and it’s cool, sinful relief. He fumbles for a bottle on the shelf and slicks up his fingers in oily lube, teasing himself like someone else would if they were there. He closes his eyes only to welcome Kita into the bathroom with him. 

He’s tan until his biceps, lines stopping where a loose cotton t-shirt must shelter him from the midday sun. The faint swell of muscles on his stomach suggests hours of labor hunched over in paddies hours away from Atsumu’s Osaka home. It makes his toes curl. “ _Summer’s hot,_ ” he explains to Atsumu’s hungry gaze, like it’s an answer. 

“H-how do you want me?” 

_“Just like this, Tsumu. Turn around so I can see yer pretty blush.”_

(Not-horny Atsumu scoffs at his own overactive imagination.) 

The image puffs away like smoke, and it’s Atsumu on his knees, letting the hot water pelt at his back as licks up the length of Kita’s cock like it’s the only thing he wants to eat. Kita doesn’t react beyond holding a hand at the base of his neck—guiding but not pushing. _“Yer doing good, Atsumu_ ,” says dream Kita, almost identical to Kita’s usual tone of astute aloofness. 

It eggs him on, makes him want to _harder_ and _faster_ just so he can see that blush again. He’ll take any reaction, at this point. He slips a third finger in as he imagines taking Kita all the way down his throat and swallowing around the head of his cock. There’s a groan above him and Atsumu moans, deep and low in his diaphragm, trying to convey the feeling through their point of connection. 

He’s good at sucking dick, he knows he is. He knows to breathe through his nose, deepthroat like a champ and to gag playfully around his partner just to see the reaction. 

But Kita isn’t anyone. He takes it with soft exhales and gentle caressing around his neck. His eyes mock Atsumu as he makes certain that _he’s_ the one that’s getting pleasure like this. Not Kita. Never Kita. Unflappable and immovable Kita. Letting him eat as much dick as he can take like Kita’s the one doing him a favor.

“ _Let’s not wait another ten years, ya?”_ Like a promise. 

Atsumu hits the right spot then, seeing stars as he shoots his load against the sliding glass door, hand slowing on his softening dick. 

Long, rough exhale. 

“Tadaima,” a voice calls out.

 _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first time postin on here! 2 AM gives me some crazy ideas and this was one of them!! hope y'all enjoy this (very) short intro xx
> 
> [follow my twt for sakuatsu doodles !](https://twitter.com/dindie__)


	2. about yesterday...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> atsumu's a hot mess™ !

_Fuck._

“O-okaeri!” Atsumu calls back, swiftly splashing water on the glass and wiping the remnants of his sins away with a shaky foot. He’ll wipe that down before he gets out. 

God _damn_ , his face is red isn't it? Is the water just really cold? He can’t believe he just _orgasmed_ to _Kita_ like he was _fifteen_. Atsumu reaches for the body wash to get blood flowing in his limbs again. 

The sound of the shower—slapping his skin like it’s chiding him and his heart beating to the guilt he feels bubbling up from his stomach and out of his ears— _almost_ masks the sound of the bathroom door opening. 

“Hey,” Kiyoomi greets as he walks in with his ditty bag. 

As always, Atsumu feels like a giant blob of messy goo ready to melt onto the floor whenever Kiyoomi walks into a room, but tonight it just feels like a trap his body is unconsciously falling for. The black tee tucked into his favorite high-waisted tan trousers usually turn Atsumu on so quickly he fears for his heavy heart. He eyes them suspiciously through the water condensing on the shower doors. Wasn’t-

“Weren’t cha supposed to get home tomorrow?” He tries to ask in a steady voice. 

In another universe, Kiyoomi would ignore him, maybe give a short, curt reply about how he’ll _leave_ if that’s what Atsumu’s asking. Maybe five years ago, _that_ Kiyoomi existed—but this version of 193 centimeters of man can read every centimeter of Atsumu like it was a book that was written just for him. 

Kiyoomi sticks his head into the sliver of glass door. Black curls drop over the eye that’s appraising him like shower curtains that Atsumu wishes _they had_ to wrap his guilty naked body up in. Literally _fuck_ modern homes with their waterfall showers and open air living spaces. _Who needs privacy?_ Some stupid European architect had probably asked at one point or another just to fuck with nerds like Atsumu. 

A fully body shiver breaks out as Kiyoomi's eyes wander his body, completely shameless. “Did I interrupt something?” 

“ _N-no!_ ” Atsumu sputters and turns so he’s facing the water. He _prays_ the oily lube isn’t shining bright on his ass cheeks. 

Kiyoomi hums and ducks back out. Atsumu watches through the foggy glass as Kiyoomi unpacks his toiletries and completely useless products like oil wood cleaner; snorts to himself when he sees the bottle of cockroach spray. He should probably finish with his shower to wipe it down so Kiyoomi can get started with his post-travel wash routine. 

Reaching for the bottle of purple shampoo, he clears his throat and asks, “How were ‘kaasan and otousan?” 

The wood cleaner stays on the counter for a wipedown. _Must’ve used it in his family’s home_. The cockroach spray goes under the counter. _Oh, that’s good then_.

“Okaasan was wondering where you were. She said, and I quote, ‘ _you’re never allowed back without Tsu-chan again. You’re insufferable. Ask him if he’s gotten my Facebook request yet. I hope his online exams are going well,_ ’ end quote. Tousan was on call most of the time I was there so we didn’t see each other much,” he replies as he zips up another compartment of his bulky ditty bag. 

“She probably added a fan account,” Atsumu chuckles. “And Izu-chan? Didja two fight like cats?” 

Between two shelves and Atsumu working purple suds from his hair, Kiyoomi huffs a breath like a laugh. “No. She flew back to London for her fall term before we got the chance.” 

“She still seein’ that cute Turkish guy?” 

A sigh. “Yes.” Pause. “Your reunion was tonight, wasn’t it?” 

_“Yep!”_ Atsumu all but squeaks. 

Kiyoomi hums again like he usually does when he’s thinking or plotting. His heart rate picks up. 

_I didn’t even talk about him to the guys tonight,_ Atsumu realizes with a jolt. And then he’s back down the anxiety rabbit hole. He _always_ talks about Kiyoomi—so much so that Shion had deemed it a _character flaw_. He needs to go to bed so he can process this in his sleep and maybe _pray that he never wakes up again._

He closes his eyes to work the conditioner in and asks in what he _assumes_ is a casual tone, “Ya want the shower? Just gonna rinse my conditioner in a bit and I’ll be outta yer hair.” Atsumu waits for the laugh that never comes. In a quiet, panicked voice he asks, “Get it? ‘Cos I’m showerin’.” 

The door slides open fully and Atsumu opens his eyes as Kiyoomi steps in, in all his naked glory, sporting what is undoubtedly a half-hard erection.

“Move over,” he orders, then asks, “Did you brush your teeth yet?” 

Atsumu blushes and finishes tugging the product from his hair. “Was gettin’ to it…” 

Kiyoomi tsks and tosses him the mouthwash on the shelf above the three bottles of lube that all correspond to the many situations they inevitably end up in behind these glass doors. “Use it again. After.” 

With that, Kiyoomi gets under the spray to work the cleansing conditioner through his hair since Sunday is his alternate day. Atsumu swishes behind tight lips as he watches in a trance as those long fingers work the loose ringlets. Since his back is turned, Atsumu can ogle his muscled ass in guilty peace and the long cock when he turns around to wash it all out. He blames the stupid pants on his dick taking interest. He's truly a sick, horny excuse of a man. 

Atsumu leans over to spit the mouthwash into the drain. “After what?” He asks, peering up at Kiyoomi through his wet fringe. 

His eyes, dark in the dim lighting, cause heat to stir in Atsumu’s belly. “After you blow me for getting off without me.” 

Dizzy, Atsumu leans into his chest. “Okay, yeah. M’sorry. Missed you.” 

A cool hand touches his cheek, and his eyes catch on Kiyoomi’s gold band as he looks down at Atsumu with the same look Atsumu must have given Kita earlier today. His blood boils. 

It’s hot and it shouldn’t be. Not when Kiyoomi is right here and he was stupid enough to share the past two years with Atsumu’s family name adorning his MSBY Black Jackal’s jesey above the number 15. 

He’ll tell him. He loves him, right? _He’ll tell him_. 

But right now, his husband is hard against his hip. “Kiss me,” he begs and Kiyoomi makes sure he forgets to say anything until morning. He does not see Kita’s message. 

-

The next day passes too quickly for Atsumu to say anything since he’d gotten lazy without Kiyoomi for the past week. The morning begins and ends with a cleaning session that rivals the time they returned from visiting Kiyoomi's sister, Izumi, in the UK. In the span of a few hours, they turn the house upside down: dusting the rafters, vacuuming the rugs and drying their bedding outside while Atsumu is forced to water the garden.

By the time lunch rolls around, Kiyoomi says he’s tired from his trip—a big fat _lie_ , since Atsumu _knows_ he spent the last six days in Tokyo lounging around, yukata-clad in the big Sakusa house in Hiroo with the _one_ exception being a day at Yamatane Museum of Modern Art—so Atsumu whips up two _really_ sad salads with what's left of the spinach before he has to head out for his afternoon meeting with the counselor on campus.

Kiyoomi doesn’t kiss him on the cheek when he leaves. He hands him a pair of gloves and one of the masks from his favorite bulk brand. Atsumu loves him. 

On his drive out of the suburbs, his doubts grow louder in his head. Well if he loved his husband so much, why would he be thinking of other men while he gets off? In the entirety of his and Kiyoomi’s relationship—which feels like _eons,_ split into _before-Omi_ and _after-Omi—_ he’s never thought of anyone else. Well, um, _maybe_ once in the beginning, but never twice. And he’s _never_ jerked it to anyone else. He wakes up to a professional athlete with a body that he begrudgingly admits is a little stronger than his own, but only because it _has_ to be to hit _Atsumu’s_ tosses. 

Starting a life with Kiyoomi was like breathing fresh air for the first time in forever. Even if it hasn’t been eons since they started eyeing each other, playfully insulting one another, then poking at each other with their dicks, Atsumu feels like he’s known Kiyoomi all his life and maybe his past one. Perhaps the one before that. He hopes he procures enough good karma to continue the cycle.

It’s not easy. Normal days break up the good and the bad. Atsumu goes through self esteem slumps which he tries to forget altogether in bouts of impulsive decision-making like dying his hair or buying a second _car._ Meanwhile, Kiyoomi retreats into isolation to endure his own demons that torment him with obsessive thoughts and creeping paranoia. They have a house with a big yard on the outskirts of the prefecture for the sole reason of the space that his husband so desperately needs when those episodes happen.

As he parks the Toyota in the university car park, Atsumu considers the sudden chill breeze cutting through the leaves on the trees lining the buildings. September is tomorrow. 

Will he still love Kiyoomi tomorrow as much as he does today? Or will an unexpected breeze have enough strength to knock down the growing roots of a baby sapling? 

The day goes on. He worries about choosing a major after he finishes his general education courses online, to which his counselor, a short, stout man that goes by Murata-san, assures that he has options and _plenty_ of time to apply for departments. 

Making a decision to go back to school was almost like pulling teeth—being whined about until Kiyoomi had made an appointment for him for an exam and helped him enroll like a doting mother. Over many conversations about their futures, they both came to the conclusion to play volleyball until they were satisfied. That meant it would be a while, but _if it were_ to happen, that it would be on _their_ terms. And maybe... if they ever decided to adopt.

Still a fat _no_ on that front. 

But Atsumu could only think about volleyball for about, say, _ninety_ percent of his day. The other ten he could easily spend worrying about the pain in his right shoulder, his hairline, and the fact that Kiyoomi could proudly boast about a degree in microbiology while _Atsumu couldn't_. Online classes were an easy compromise so he could feel like he was _doing_ something for his future self and not just moping about it.

After his meeting, he clocks in two hours at the public library studying for his final exam on contemporary Japanese literature and fiddles with a pen until it explodes all over his hands. He’s suddenly thankful for the gloves Kiyoomi handed him as he shoves them on when he gets to the grocery store to cover his inky fingers.

Atsumu wanders around the produce aisle wondering which vegetable is best paired with an apologetic admission of, “ _Ain’t it funny? While ya were gone visiting your family, I totally got off to fantasies of my high school captain.”_

Picking up an eggplant he thinks _, it’s not so bad phrased like that._

Right then, he gets a text from Kiyoomi. 

**_Can you pick up vegetables? Why is there only takeout rice and limp strawberries in the fridge?? What have you been eating_ **

Atsumu sends him a photo of the eggplant he’s holding and sends some suggestive emojis to accompany it. The response is immediate. 

**_Why are you actually wearing the gloves_**

**_haha pen exploded_ **

**_Stop chewing on your fingers_ **

**_Eggplant looks good_ **

With that, eggplant and beef stir fry is served over a bed of takeout brown rice. 

At the peak of their season, dinner is accompanied by two pills of acetaminophen and water jugs. Today, they swirl glasses of their favorite red wine label after a good meal. Like the last supper. Or something. 

Atsumu leans into Kiyoomi as they lounge on the couch in the living room which is littered with too many plants and stacks of books that Kiyoomi has organized into _next month, next spring,_ and _in five years_. The _finished_ pile, on the other hand, looks pitifully sad. The diffuser puffs in the corner and accompanies a jazz record that Atsumu had put on so they can wind down in peace, and maybe set the mood for his murder. 

After a minute of what Atsumu _thought_ was comfortable silence, Kiyoomi sighs, deep and long, like he’s disappointed. Atsumu’s eye twitches. Is he that easy to read?

“What is it?” Kiyoomi asks and sets his wine glass down on his coaster with an air of finality. 

“Who said something was—” Atsumu stops when he spots a new planter hanging beside the television. “Is that new?” 

Another sigh. “Propagated. Stop diverting. Just tell me what’s wrong.” Kinder, he reminds him of the words that have kept their relationship alive and flourishing: “you’ll feel better when you get it off your chest.” 

Atsumu acknowledges the truth of the statement with another swig of wine, pulse jumping. He just has to do it. _Omi loves me right? We can work through this._

He opens his mouth—

_I’m too young to get divorced!_

—and closes it. 

Kiyoomi watches him with a bored expression as this process repeats six times. Each time, he feels like the words get caught before they can escape. Each time, Kiyoomi’s frown gets just a _bit_ deeper until it’s twitching against his forehead, but Atsumu _can’t help it_. He's embarrassed and he needs something to give him a boost. He opens his mouth again kind of selfishly hoping it’ll get a reaction from Kiyoomi and partially because he’s got a burp about to make itself known. 

His husband breaks first. “Just spit it out!” 

“ _I jizzed thinking about Kita-san!”_

Atsumu promptly covers his mouth.

Silence.

He freaks out. Mostly at his phrasing. _God, he’s really gonna divorce me now._

It’s another beat before Kiyoomi leans over to pick up his wine again, expression cooler than the one he wore while shouting. Atsumu can’t decide if it’s bad or if it’s _catatonic_.

“Is that all?” Kiyoomi asks innocently. 

“ _Is t-that—_!” Atsumu flushes. “Why ya gotta dismiss me like that? I was tryin’ to tell ya what was on my mind! _That_ was on my mind!” He breathes, wet. _Get it off your chest._ “I was feeling so guilty about it because I’ve only ever come thinkin’ about _you_ and I’m scared that yer gonna leave me and _I love you so much_. It was only once. I swear! Just once.” 

He feels feet wiggling under his thigh until they drop to the floor. “Did you sleep with him?” 

“ _Of course not!”_

Kiyoomi hums and takes another sip. “Then I don’t see a problem with it.” 

If Atsumu was still as dumb as he was back when they started seeing each other casually and pretending not to be stupidly in love, a comment like that would have been broken down and dissected until two in the morning, five hours before a Tuesday practice.

Now, after years of experience, Atsumu knows Kiyoomi only says what he means by principle. He hates liars and, more than that, hates wasting time sugar-coating _anything_. Even sugar cookies. Says it’s useless calories. Case in point.

He looks up at the serene expression on his husband’s face, and thinks maybe he’s an idiot for convincing himself on the ride home from the grocery store that he was going to have to move out of their house tomorrow.

“Really?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“Really,” comes the response. 

Atsumu sets his wine down and makes space for himself on Kiyoomi’s lap so he can face him. Strong thighs spread to accommodate him in practiced ease. “Yer not mad?” 

“You didn’t sleep with him, so why would I be mad?” He sets his wine down so he can rub his hands up and down Atsumu’s side. “Also, _who_ exactly is Kita-san?” 

Atsumu frowns. “My old captain. We played ya during Summer Inter-Highour second year. I didn't think ya'd forget _that_ win.” 

“I thought Ojiro-san was captain.” 

“On the court, sure. Ya never thought to look for the guy wearing the _one_ on his jersey?” 

It’s subtle and if he blinks, Atsumu would miss it, but there’s a tell-tale red speckling on his husband's neck. “My mind was occupied,” he murmurs, which is Omi-speak for _I was looking at you._ “What was he like?”

So Atsumu tells him. All of it. 

He talks about his first day in the volleyball club, of stony approval as he executed his practiced jump floater, and later that year, his spiked serve. The first time he uttered _great toss—_ which would become Atsumu’s love language. He gestures with his hands to describe the silence that followed a reprimand, and the respect Kita never asked for when he entered a room. He mentions the konbini bag of electrolytes and probiotics, accompanied by a note to _take care of yourself_ in Kita’s neat handwriting, waiting in the club room beside his locker. Mister No Gaps Kita Shinsuke, learning to dig Samu's quick spike and ready himself for a jump in the next second. _So_ many nights with them alone during cleanup and Atsumu trying to play it cool and not blushing at every time Kita said his name.

He mentions graduation day, and a confession that waited behind pursed lips, swallowed down by bitter acceptance as the third years left the gymnasium that smelled like moldy bread for the last time. 

Lastly, he tells him of Kita-san’s words to him, not even twenty-four hours before. 

Kiyoomi listens attentively, nodding his head at the right times, asking one word questions to prompt him along when he gets too flustered to continue and ends up staring at the rubber tree by the window. 

Is it possible to love someone and still be yearning for someone else? All the memories of Kita swim in his vision like it was just last week. His heart makes space for the lingering feelings, meanwhile, his brain keeps trying to scream, _stop! no! bad Atsumu!_

A hand settles on his back, where he’s now curled against a warm chest. It brushes the hem of his shirt and pushes it up so it can tickle the knobs of curved spine. “Sounds like you really liked him.” 

Atsumu hums. “Yeah, but maybe it’s for the best. I mean I ended up fallin’ on my ass for ya so maybe it was just the universe tellin’ me to wait until the real thing comes along.” 

“Perhaps,” Kiyoomi agrees.

He looks up at the strong jaw that clenches for a lead-up to a spike that loosens into satisfaction like the rest of his body after it connects. The cluster of moles at the hollow of his throat, and his Adam's apple when it bobs to finish the rest of his wine. Yesterday was a fluke. It’s got to be when he’s got his favorite person right here in his lap. 

He voices it. “Kita-san was untouchable, ya know. It’s not like what ya and I have. And I _like_ what ya and I have better, anyway.” 

“But you never knew what you were missing,” Kiyoomi tacks onto the rest of that thought. 

“Yeah, maybe.” 

“You should tell him.” 

_“Eh?!_ ” Atsumu sits ramrod straight and shakes his head once, to clear what is undoubtedly water in his ears. Did he just hear that right? “Ya want me to _confess?!_ ” 

Kiyoomi scoffs. “It’s not what _I_ want, but maybe what you need. Closure. Getting things off your chest, remember?” 

“Yeah…”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Just a thought. It sounds like he felt similarly,” he says, like he hasn’t just turned Atsumu’s world upside down. 

With the wine bottle emptied, they retire to the bedroom bath for a quick rinse—

“Do you think he would touch you like this?” Kiyoomi asks, hand already working at Atsumu’s cock, grip loose and slick with the lube that came from the bottle with the blue label. “Do you think he’d be rough?” His fingers wrap around him tighter— _even tighter—_ “Do you think he has soft hands?” 

That _hand_ feels like it’s squeezing the air out of his left lung. “O-omi. Omi, _please.”_ As an after-thought, he adds, “h-he’s a rice farmer now.”

“Oh,” his husband teases the syllable around his earlobe, lapping at the water dripping from his hair. “Then he must be strong.”

He picks him up and slams him against the glass door. It rattles with the force of it. Automatically, Atsumu’s legs hook around his hips. They groan when Kiyoomi's cock nudges against his balls.

Kiyoomi clears his throat. “Yer tosses were so good today, Miya-kun.” 

Any other time, Atsumu would give him shit for his perfected Kansai-ben, but right now he’s got more important things to think about. “H-he called me Atsumu-kun.” 

“ _Atsumu-kun,_ ” Kiyoomi corrects as he strokes both of their dicks in one hand. The hand that’s free holds his jaw in place so he can nibble on it. “Yer tosses were good,” he repeats and pushes down on the slit at the tip of his cock, “but ya need to work on _yer receives.”_

“A-ah _fuck,_ thats… that’s really funny, Om- _Kita-san_ ,” Atsumu breathes against wet curls. It’s _hilarious_. Atsumu will file that away for later. “Can ya help me practice?” Atsumu flirts back, saccharine. 

Kiyoomi _does_. 

He whispers all the things Atsumu never knew he wanted from Kita and one or two things he already _did._ It’s almost as hot as their second foray into bondage. Atsumu comes _hard_ , and with an embarrassingly loud scream that sounds like it keeps getting punched out of him by his husband's persistent stamina. Kiyoomi, somewhere in the middle of thrusting and instructing Atsumu _to_ _loosen up_ , forgot how to say something in the dialect and reverted to his usual grunting and biting of Atsumu's chin before his own release dribbled down Atsumu’s thighs.

In bed and dried off, Atsumu wonders how high the water bill will be this month. And also... _did Omi just roleplay as Kita-san?_

Kiyoomi shifts on his side of the bed. “Your light is still on,” his back grumbles. 

“Ah, sorry,” Atsumu whispers apologetically and nearly knocks his glass of water down trying to tug the chain. 

Bathed in cool, blue light and the shifting shadows of an early autumn breeze, Atsumu thinks. 

-

“So, I was thinking...”

Kiyoomi sets down his book from where he’s perched on the deck overlooking their backyard where Atsumu— _once again_ roped into housework by early morning sexual favors—rakes the fallen leaves from the osakazuki and gingko trees. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he jokes.

Atsumu huffs and leans on the rake. “So _mean_ , Omi.” It’s still hot out, but considerably less humid. The ratty white t-shirt, with a faded band logo on the back, clings to his skin like a used condom. “What do ya think about… a jacuzzi.” He nods his head at the corner of the maple deck that isn’t littered with Kiyoomi’s pots. “Right there.” 

With an eye roll, Kiyoomi goes back to his book. “We’re renters. No.” 

Atsumu whines. “But what if we _weren’t_?” 

Kiyoomi sighs and turns to Atsumu with a dead stare. He says in a perfect monotone like he’s reading from his book, “Microbial growth. Bacteria from _feces. Fungi_. _Deadly_ staphylococcus bacteria. If the chlorine evap—” 

Atsumu holds his arms out in an effort to curb the lecture. “Okay, sorry, sorry!” and goes back to raking. In a low, petulant voice he secretly hopes Kiyoomi hears: “I thought it would be less expensive than our showers.”

His thoughtfulness is recognized when Kiyoomi stands and stretches his limbs. “Want some mugicha?”

While he chews on an ice cube and daydreams about tree-less yards in the fall, Kiyoomi sits close enough to touch him, but doesn't because he probably stinks like sweaty balls and he still hasn't taken off his worker's gloves yet.

“Isn’t it your okaasan’s birthday this weekend?” He asks.

“Mmm.” 

“Why don’t we drive over after practice on Friday for dinner and stay the night?” 

“Mmmm.” 

“Maybe she can touch up your roots.”

“Mmmmm.”

“And you could let Kita-san know that you’re visiting.” 

He freezes mid- _crunch_. Memories of the night before flood his face in what feels like punctured blood vessels. Kiyoomi _really_ wanted to go through with this, huh? 

“Y-yer sure?” 

Kiyoomi shrugs. “If you are.” He uses two hands to sip his tea and then smirks suddenly. “But you have to tell me _every_ time you stutter.” 

Atsumu nearly knocks the drink out of Kiyoomi’s hands. “Y-yer a big, fat _m-meanie!_ ” 

“What are you, _five_? I hope you use better vocabulary when speaking to Kita-san.” 

“ _I’m gonna fuckin’_ divorce _ya!”_

Over the course of the next week, they get back into their pre-season schedule by running in the botanical gardens on different routes, attending check-ups and exams and physical therapy for Atsumu’s right shoulder. When Aran’s jersey is revealed during a press conference, Atsumu pumps his fists and cheers over the sounds of reporters trying to get a word in. "I called it," Atsumu scream whispers to his team during stretches the next morning. Aran is off to the side talking to Coach Foster while he stretches his arms with elastic bands like Atsumu learned he does before their international games. The team rolls their eyes, save for Bokuto who pouts about having to compete for tosses again.

Wednesday brings another boring dinner with Suna and Samu, before the former goes back to training for EJP. The only exception to Atsumu's boredom over takoyaki, is Rin's new hoop earring that hangs from his left ear. _"Ya didn't have to put a ring in yer ear for people to know yer a queen!"_ Atsumu laughs. The quick reply: _"What can I say? I wanted to give Samu a toy to play with."_

 _That_ shuts him up. 

When Friday comes around, they have a Plan. Get coffee with Kita on Saturday morning before taking his okaasan shopping. Quick, and to the point, while his husband waits in a bookstore across the street. Kiyoomi picked the place and had helped him make bullet points of conversation topics that accompanied a quiz on the many segues he could take to get to his final talking point. It was almost like a dating sim, and he feels no less prepared for the Plan, should he clam up. 

He totally _would_. But that would mean Kita _actually_ responding to Atsumu’s request for coffee, first.

In Kiyoomi’s car after their afternoon conditioning, Atsumu fiddles with the seat heater and texts his okaasan the details for the restaurant reservation that Kiyoomi had made and then called to confirm, and then _called again_ to ask for the building’s health code. He gets a dragon, cat, and alien emoji in response. He frowns. Who's _who?_

His thumbs pause over Kita’s contact, his last message sitting unread in Kita’s inbox. 

Kiyoomi’s driving gloved hand pats his thigh. “Next time.” 

Atsumu groans and curls in on himself against the passenger window. He ties his hoodie tighter around his face. “Shoulda’ never gotten my hopes up. Wish I’d never _met’cha_.” 

A practiced hand holds the wheel as they turn up the winding mountain road while the other still rubs his thigh. “If I was insecure, I’d wonder if you were planning to leave me.” 

Atsumu thinks about the heat of Kiyoomi's thumb, as it rubs the seam of his dress pants, and chokes on a laugh. “As if I could. Ya have my car keys on yer key ring.” That gets him one of those cute _Omi_ _laughs_ that makes his heart soar. He pushes his luck. “And ya have the keys to _my_ _heart_ , _baby._ ” 

“Ew,” Kiyoomi says, but he’s still smiling.

-

“And why isn't Samu here?” Is the first thing his okaasan asks when they’re seated at the clothed table. Too many forks sit in front of Atsumu, and he thinks the little one is perfect for scooping his husband’s amused eyes out of their sockets. 

"H-he's busy. I think. Ya know. _Business_ owner and all," Atsumu explains quickly and clutches the small utensil in warning.

He purposefully didn’t tell his brother after the Suna Ring Incident during Wednesday dinner and he begged and pleaded for Kiyoomi not to tattle. If Samu was the better twin, why didn’t he remember their okaasan’s birthday, huh? Who's the better Miya now?

 _“I reminded you,”_ Kiyoomi (the best Miya) had reminded him.

Regardless, she’s happy to see them, wearing her favorite red dress and sporting a new necklace her boyfriend got delivered to her with flowers since he was in Tokyo for business.

She likes Suna the best out of all the boys she ended up with, since they're both sarcastic _assholes,_ but if Atsumu had to guess from her complaining about how badly she wants to cut and style his pretty hair, Kiyoomi was her second favorite. Fortunately, that means the scrub is in last place now. 

_Especially_ after Atsumu gifts her the Chanel perfume he'd been promising to get her ever since he did that one ad in '19. It's framed in Kiyoomi's unofficial shrine of official shirtless photos of Atsumu, with his nude Sex Edition AnAn cover in the center like the Buddha himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and since Kiyoomi has an Atsumu anxiety/panic/embarrassment radar installed in him (for his personal viewing pleasure), he turns to him, one black eyebrow poised in perfect question. Atsumu gives him a strained smile and excuses himself to the restroom. 

“Didn’tcha just go at the house?” His okaasan asks, hazel eyes narrowing and then widening in realization. She grabs his hand. “Do ya have an infection? Want to go to a clinic? Have ya been tinklin’ after sex like I told’ja?”

Atsumu sputters as the server comes to take their drink orders and offers a raised eyebrow. Kiyoomi hides his smile behind his hand. Traitor. “M’fine, _ma._ Just drank a lot at practice.” 

Sitting on the toilet and heart pounding his ears, he flicks open the notification.   
  


**_Hi, Atsumu._ **

**_I have to drive into Kobe for a meeting on Sunday, if you’re still around._**

Shamelessly, he responds before Kita can log off.

**_ya! I'm driving back home around noon anyway_ **

A quick response.

**_Coffee still good at nine, then?_**

_**perfect!!!! see you then!!**_

He furiously hits send like a dog wagging his tail after retrieving a ball to its owner. 

After washing his hands, he heads back into the dining room and deposits his phone in Kiyoomi’s lap as he takes his seat next to him at the table. He listens to his okaasan berate him for taking her to a fancy place since now she’s getting _looks_ from the people that overheard her talking about _tinklin' after_ sex. As Atsumu ponders where he gets his low self-esteem from, his husband types in his phone's passcode.

A snort. Atsumu wants to tell him he forgot to wash his hands. Then, when he looks up, a pleased nod. 

Now if only he doesn’t chicken out, everything will go according to the Plan.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhghhdh trying to do exposition while meta is like the room in interstellar. there's so many books and i. dont. read. morse. binary. or anything that isnt 100% certified embarrassed atsumu
> 
> love y'all for kudos, comments and bookmarks xx 
> 
> [yell at me on twitter, it's my love language](https://twitter.com/dindie__)


	3. weekend plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was brought to you by patsy cline and memories of past confession nightmares at coffeehouses

The Plan: 

  * Thank Kita for meeting 
  * Offer compliment (ie: shirt and hair _only_. Anything else comes off as weird, Atsumu)
  * Offer to pay for his coffee 
  * Focus on eye contact
  * Do _not_ bite fingernails 
  * Talk about rice farming ~~and maybe research agriculture reforms or is that too much work for you~~
  * Talk about my plants 
    * no
    * It's basically farming for beginners
    * no it aint
    * I grant you permission to claim the plants as your own
  * Mention high school
  * “I only had eyes for you” or something lol



Looking at the piece of paper in his hands and standing outside the bookstore Kiyoomi’s about to hide out in, Atsumu feels... a little ridiculous.

(Part of him secretly hopes Kiyoomi had made a list like this for their first _real_ date at Sakuya Konohanakan Kan in Tsurumi Ryokuchi Park after he found out about Kiyoomi’s obsession with plants. It would make the “ _I… like you, Miya_ ,” overlooking the city lights on Oike Pond afterwards, _all_ the more _cuter._

But he also knows Kiyoomi’s an asshole, so he probably just brushed his teeth, scrunched his hair, and called it a day.)

People mill about their normal Sunday around Port Town in light jackets and laughter like the meteor Atsumu desperately prays for, really _isn’t_ going to come and save him. He’s going to tell Kita he liked him. _Pfft. Big deal._ Right?

 _Wrong_. 

“Why can’tcha be a _normal_ wife and discourage me from confessin’ to my first crushes,” Atsumu asks sullenly, shoulders bunched around his neck like a turtle retreating into its shell. He balls up the piece of paper and tucks it in his back pocket of his black jeans. His shirt feels too tight against his chest and the cardigan is too _hot_. Is he running a fever? Maybe he can get his okaasan to write him a note.

Kiyoomi, on the other hand, looks as cool as a cucumber wearing a purple cashmere sweater from his favorite Tokyo boutique to ward off the sudden September chill, and black plaid pants Atsumu _swore_ he got rid of, cuffed at his ankles. They’re atrocious. He’s about to mention it when Kiyoomi opens his mouth to insult him: “We both know who’s the wife here.”

“Excuse ya! _I_ do all the yard work while ya plant yer pretty flowers!” 

Kiyoomi shrugs, like it’s already been decided. Atsumu will bring this up later. 

He leans close, not quite touching, and looks at him with serious eyes above his mask. “You don’t have to be nervous,” he instructs, pauses and frowns. “You included me in your will, right?”

“ _Omi-chan_ …” Atsumu whines, putting on his best puppy pout.

He receives one quick, reassuring pat on his shoulder. Atsumu beams. Kiyoomi scoffs. “Don’t call me that. Just follow the plan and I’ll wait in the divorcé self-help aisle for your text.” 

Atsumu snorts. “Find me a good page-turner in the marital murder mystery section.” He takes a deep breath. “Ya got yer gloves?” 

“Yes.” 

“No more than two books, _got it?_ Ya haven’t finished yer pile.”

“Whatever.”

“Love ya, ex-baby.” 

“Tch.” 

The night they got engaged, Atsumu cried like a baby and then-Sakusa had belly laughed in his face for the very first time. It was… supremely confusing. At least it _was_ , until Kiyoomi had kissed him to apologize for his body’s natural response to Atsumu’s tears before _finally_ putting Atsumu out of his misery by saying yes. 

On their wedding day, a small traditional ceremony outside in the garden of the Sakusa home in Tokyo, surrounded by family and a few friends, _Kiyoomi_ had been the one crying silent tears. For the very first time in his life, Atsumu felt so sick with tenderness that he surprised _himself_ by not commenting on it. It was a weak moment. He regrets it.

Why Kiyoomi is helping push him to do this, he still doesn’t know. All the joking and teasing about Kita has become somewhat of a game between them, but under the surface, there are still _very_ real feelings that Atsumu has for this former teammate. It scares him when he starts thinking, _what if he had liked me back? What about Kiyoomi?_

He conjures up the image of Kiyoomi in a black kimono—embarrassed by the enormity of his feelings for Atsumu—to help protect him as he enters the cafe. It’s not overly cute; Kiyoomi thought the unpretentious ambiance and barrels of coffee on the walls served a more rustic, unfussy clientele. Since Kita was a farmer, he would probably appreciate it. YeYe’s newest album plays on the speaker behind the counter to make the industrial space a little more welcoming. He finds a quiet corner to take in these details and tries _desperately_ not to focus on his breathing. 

Two minutes to nine, Kita walks in and all the oxygen leaves the room with the bell chimes announcing his arrival. 

He… looks. _So good._ Wearing a black button up tucked into some light wash denim by a black leather belt; Atsumu wonders if it’s possible to become one with the wall. Even his _hair_ looks perfect, wisps of the cool grey hanging over his perfect dark brows, like billowing curtains on a summer day, parted slightly more to the left side and tucked behind his tanned ears. 

Kita looks around. Atsumu sighs and runs a hair through his freshly dyed hair. Little did his okaasan know her firstborn was going to _die_ today. 

He stands and waves his hand. “Kita-san! Hey!” Atsumu smiles through the steady _thump thump_ rattling his frame, and gets up. “Nice shirt,” he compliments when he comes to stand awkwardly next to him. 

Should they shake hands? Atsumu kind of wants to give him a half-hug but too many seconds have gone by for him to have taken the opportunity to do so. Shit. Shit. At least he crossed off something from the Plan. 

“Thank you,” Kita nods his head once like a holographic baseball trading card. “It was my sofu’s.”

Atsumu clears his parched throat. He’s gonna _barf_. “Well, it… _suit’s_ ya.” _Shit._ His ojiisan is _dead_ and he’s making _jokes_. Thankfully, Kita, like the rest of the people Atsumu deigns to surround himself with, is immune to his humor. He gets another polite nod instead.

Nervous, he picks at the dead skin around his thumb bed with flicks of his middle finger. “Um, thanks for agreein’ to coffee. I thought about what’cha said and since it was my ma’s birthday—” 

Kita cuts his rambling off with a single motion of his right hand. “No thanks are necessary. If I’d known tellin’ ya that we shouldn’t wait to meet again would get’cha to meet me in a week, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” 

_Thump._

_Thump._

“Oh,” Atsumu replies dumbly. _Oh_. “C-Can I get’cha yer coffee?” Before Kita can decline, he recovers and laughs. “To apologize?” 

Kita purses his lips and Atsumu watches in rapt interest as his ears move with his clenched jaw. “Sure.” 

In line, Atsumu confidently remarks, “it’s really cool you can move yer ears like that. I used to look up videos on how to move yer ears and I still haven’t figured it out. It’s uh, neat.” He has nothing to follow up with that.

Kita’s eyebrows pinch at the bridge of his nose. He gingerly touches his earlobe. “My ears moved?” 

“Uh,” Atsumu states while sweating bullets. The hole he’s in just keeps on getting deeper. “Ya. Like a second ago.” 

The frown on Kita’s face gets deeper. The tips of his ears get noticeably pinker. “I never noticed.”

_Thump._

_Thump._

“What’ja want?” The barista asks in heavily clipped kansai-ben when they reach the counter. She gives them a tired, expectant look. 

Atsumu coughs. “Just a latte with so—almond— wait, do you do oat milk?” 

She snorts, a septum piercing following the movement. “What do we look like, eh? Starbucks?” 

Atsumu’s about to reply that, _No,_ they obviously don’t. But also, she should also _know_ that Starbucks doesn’t _._ He’s _checked_. Ever since the FIVB World Cup last year hosted in Sweden, he’s been hooked on the stuff. 

Kita _(no gaps!)_ steps in to save the day. “I’ll take a regular drip.” 

She rings it up and looks pointedly at Atsumu. He feels like his feet are about to stop holding up his sorry weight.

“S-same,” he croaks out and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. 

He hands her some yen, and turns to say something to Kita, but when he does, he notices his old captain is hunched over on the ground picking som— 

_FUCK._

Atsumu scrambles down to the floor to reach the piece of paper before Kita does and promptly _doinks_ their heads together, one going up, the other going down. 

“Ah, _fuck!”_ Atsumu curses and rubs the spot on his forehead that connected with Kita's.

Kita straightens and hands him the _still_ balled up piece of paper. Thank _God_. “Sorry. You dropped this,” he announces simply and brushes a finger against his bangs. Seriously? Did that not hurt him?

Atsumu grimaces. “No, that was my bad,” he replies and shoves the paper in his _other_ back pocket. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

That was close. _Way too close_. 

With clammy hands clutching a warm mug, Atsumu leads Kita back to his secluded corner. The chairs aren’t very comfortable and since he’s not allowed to bite his fingers, his leg bounces, causing the already unsteady table to shake.

“How’s the farm?” he asks when he remembers the next thing on his list. He takes one sip from his bitter coffee and decides it needs oat milk.

Kita brings his own mug to his lips. “S’good. I’m meetin’ a horticulturist from the uni up the road to discuss some new techniques for the greenhouse I just started.” 

Horti- _what_? “That’s... good?” Atsumu, unsure, questions.

Kita smiles briefly. “Yes, it’s good.” 

Fuck. What was next on the list again? Kiyoomi’s plants. God, he can’t believe he’s about to do this. “Ya know, Omi gardens, and I was wonderin’ what, um, _seeds_ I should get him to start plantin’ in the fall. We don’t have no greenhouse or nothin’, unfortunately,” he comments with a self-deprecating laugh. 

With a strange furrow in his brow, Kita looks down to his mug. “I might have a few seedlings that I can send ya. Do ya know what kinda soil ya have? Acidic, neutral?” 

“Uh,” Atsumu answers intelligently. 

“Right,” Kita responds with a small, breathy chuckle that tickles the lining of Atsumu’s stomach. “I’ll send ya a message later after ya ask Miya-kun.” A cough. “How is he by the way?” 

Sigh. Atsumu could go on until tomorrow’s practice about _how exactly_ Kiyoomi is. “He hates being called Miya. Just call him Omi-chan.” At Kita’s scandelled look, Atsumu back-pedals in a hurry. “Just kiddin’! No, just Kiyoomi is good. He’s good. We’re both, uh, good. How are _ya_?” Fuck.

Kita looks up from his coffee and offers a small shrug. “M’doing good too.” He pauses like he’s about to say something and Atsumu desperately tries not to stare at the stretched material of his bicep when he leans on a hand. “Ya know... I didn’t believe Osamu-kun at first, when he’d told me ya two had... married. Ya looked like he had stolen yer shoes when we played against Itachiyama in 2012.” 

Atsumu lets out an embarrassed laugh and scratches the back of his neck. He thinks of Kiyoomi’s long fingers blocking Samu’s spike and the lack of service aces in the second set because a _certain_ mop of black hair was always rotated to the back next to Komori like they had been planning it.

“Ya," he concedes, "I did kinda hate his guts back then.” 

Kita leans forward after taking another sip. “Really?” His boots accidentally brush up against Atsumu’s sneakers under the table and disappear just as quickly as he feels them. 

Electricity in his veins, Atsumu sees the final bullet point of the Plan in his mind’s eye. 

“Well,” he says and leans forward in his chair as well. “I mean. I never thought of him like that. Back then. Because I, uh, had my eyes on someone else.” 

Kita leans back, brows pulled back in surprise. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” 

“It was you, Kita-san.”

Pin. _drop._

He watches in real time as blank surprise shifts into astonished realization. 

In a dream, if Atsumu had waited by that bench by the baseball field, he would’ve caught Kita before he ran into Oomimi, Akagi and Aran on their way to the gym. Instead of staring down at his uniform—and feeling unsettled by his unsteady heartbeat before deciding _fuck it_ —he would’ve seen that familiar head of silver hair gleaming in the spring sun. 

Within this dream, after seeing him and congratulating him, Atsumu would say, _I like ya_. _I admire ya. Please go out with me_. 

And dream-Kita would respond with a warm smile that reached his eyes. _I like ya too, Tsumu. I’m free on Sunday. And everyday after._

Atsumu would fist pump (or something cool) and they would walk hand in sweaty hand to the gymnasium.

Honey eyes look away from Atsumu and over to the window, disrupting the fog of fantasy clouding his vision. The colors of spring fade away into the cool grey of Kobe in the fall. People are _still_ outside _,_ milling about their Sunday, like the meteor forecast was wrong. Again. 

“Yer _married_ , Atsumu-kun,” Kita whispers.

“Y-yeah, I am,” he agrees. He hears the silent, _then_ _why are you telling me this?_

Now that he thinks about, this is all really... weird. He just dropped a bomb on Kita, hoping for _what exactly_? That his husband would get a good laugh of it? That Atsumu would be able to stuff his feelings in a cute mason jar and gift it to Kita with a shy bow, _“please good take care of them, they’re fragile,”_ like he was in some shoujo manga? 

They’re out there in the open now, floating in the ether, and now that Kita knows of them, there’s no chance of them returning to the container they’d been housed in for over ten years.

Even after all of Kiyoomi’s role playing and dating sim activities, Atsumu feels unprepared for this next part. There aren't any more bullet points left of the Plan. Never _once_ did they talk about what happens _after_. Closure? Atsumu’s still waiting for that _ah-ha! Now I’m over you!_ moment.

Kita turns to him again and his heart drops into his stomach. There’s a steely look in his eyes and a pinch in between his eyebrows. It reminds him of the one time he and Samu brought water balloons and a spivet to practice on an especially hot summer afternoon. Kita had arrived with Oomimi and had taken one good look at the scene before him before scowling. It was the closest he’d ever come to raising his voice.

Before he can face Kita’s wrath, he hurries to explain himself. “I-I know that yer probably wonderin’ _well why now?_ Um, well,” he wipes his nose quickly. “It’s because I saw ya. On one of those _normal_ kinda days, and I thought about how I should’a told ya all the things I felt. Back then.” Now. _Today._ “I kinda felt like a hypocrite durin’ yer toast. Since I’d been... holding on? To those memories, I mean.” 

The amber resurfaces, but there’s still a frown marring Kita’s pretty forehead. “I can respect that.”

“ _And_. And. I was kinda hopin’ you’d tell me ya felt the same,” he finishes lamely. “Back then,” he adds in the same breath. 

Atsumu waits for the _sorry, I didn’t feel the same_. He’s sure the plain rejection is going to fall from Kita’s lips with the same detached tone he used to scold Suna and Samu for clowning or when Atsumu started to get too heated in their scrimmages. 

Kita _laughs_. 

While it’s an incredibly _pleasant_ sound _—_ like a perfect spring day wrapped up in a hug of pure enjoyment—Atsumu feels like his soul is about ready to leave his body like it did the night he and Kiyoomi got engaged. Really? Was his vulnerability _that_ funny?! 

When he finally stops, there’s still mirth in his voice. “Ya know, Atsumu-kun, ya had the best game sense outta the whole lot of us, but ya really are kind of bad at reading people.” 

“To be fair, Kita-san,” he begins, feeling a familiar heat gathering in his chest. _Kita-san thinks my game sense is good!_ “No one really knew how to read ya, so I’m just gonna take the first part as a compliment.” 

An upturned lip. “Ya do that, then.” After a moment of them falling back into a false sense of normalcy, Kita sighs. “But yer right. I should’a rectified it then. I suppose I couldn’t really tell admiration from romantic interest with ya. There were a few moments…” Kita trails off and shakes his head. “A shame.” 

Sh— _what?_

_Thump._

_Thump._

“Is that—does that mean ya li— _liked_ me back?” Atsumu asks in a rush.

The shadow of Kita’s smile still paints his lips, but Atsumu’s really just struck by the way his eyes light up when they meet his own. “It means,” he says in a tone that sounds like a joke, “that this is the weirdest Sunday mornin’ I’ve ever had in my life.” 

“Oh.” Atsumu visibly deflates. 

Of course Kita wears a watch. He makes a whole gesture with his left arm so he can glean the time from the delicate silver face. “I need to head out about now if I want to make my meetin’ on time.” He gets up from his chair. 

The whole coffee shop stands still and Atsumu can clearly see for the first time the details he’s missed: the scar along Kita’s left palm that runs beneath black fabric, the tautness of cotton that proudly boasts a fresh ironing, and the slightly darker button, second from the top of his collar. There’s splotches of raised, red pores right there, on the thin skin under his jawline. Another scar underneath his chin. How did he almost miss all that? 

When he looks up to Kita’s soft eyes, he remembers. _Oh. It’s because I still really like ya._

“Let’s do this again, sometime,” Kita says. It does not sound like a promise. 

_Thump._

_Thump._

“Kiyoomi and I’d love to have ya over for dinner next time yer in Osaka!” He blurts out and scrambles into standing position like a newborn fawn. “Uh. Since ya said ya have a new buyer there. If not our place, maybe a restaurant that—” 

Another upturned hand. “That actually sounds very nice. I’ll let ya know.” Another half-promise. 

_Let me see you again._ “Omi-kun really wants to meet ya!” 

It’s not the right thing to say. Kita’s jaw gets tight and his ears start moving again. Because he _does_ have a little self-preservation, Atsumu does not comment on it. “I’m busy for the next couple weeks. Season’s starting isn’t it?” 

“Ya…” Atsumu agrees. Then he finds his opening with wide eyes: “come to Onigiri Miya on the 7th next month! Samu’s closin’ shop early so we can throw a costume party for our birthday. Don’t think yer gettin’ out of it! Ya can wear yer best overalls!” 

Kita blinks several times, and some of the tension leaves his body when he replies, “I don’t own overalls.” 

How can he not say something stupid with an opening like _that?_

“Clothes are optional,” he winks.

A bright blush makes itself known on Kita’s cheeks. “I’ll look for some overalls then.” He pushes his chair in. “I suppose I’ll be seein ya next month.”

With that, he leaves with bell chimes sounding his departure. Atsumu does a fist pump (or something cool like that) and grabs the mugs to leave them at the counter. 

“That was _real_ smooth,” the barista side-eyes. 

“Yer coffee sucks,” he retorts, but it’s a good day, so he tries again. “This album’s good. Ya heard Mottainai?”

“Please leave,” she responds and goes back to her phone. 

  
  


-

  
  


“Nice kill!” Atsumu shouts through clapped hands. 

Shouyou—looking like he just took an _especially_ good shit _—_ gives him a grin and bounces under the net to go retrieve the ball. “Thanks, Tsumu-san!” he _screams_ as he runs by to return to the back of the line, muscles bouncing on Asics as he preps for his next jump. 

It’s been a week since the Kita Coffee Date, and the national team comes together for a friendly match against Australia in Saitama. Atsumu and Kiyoomi had arrived at their hotel with Bokuto, Aran and three days worth of luggage in tow. It was stressful trying to coordinate so many bodies with so many different League schedules, but as he looks around the training facility, it’s good to be back with everyone again. 

He adjusts the mueller ice pack on his shoulder. Or at least it _would’ve_ been. 

Atsumu sits on the bench next to Iwaizumi and Coach Hibarida as the team goes through spiking drills. He tries to think about his birthday in two weeks. Kiyoomi’s lacy blue thong that he had when they first started dating. Kita wearing overalls and nothing else. Anything that’ll make him feel a little less like a dried up piece of shit.

They brought in a reserve setter to replace Atsumu for the game—another Karasuno graduate by the name of Ikuta _._ He jumped straight from high school to signing onto the Adlers after Tobio moved to Italy and was an absolute _bitch_ to play against. The long-legged brunette is built like a sinewy _tree._ He’s a little too loose-limbed for Atsumu’s taste, but even _he_ can admit he has some skills _._

And the personality of a teddy bear. 

“Good toss!” Atsumu shouts when it’s warranted, and gets a watery proud smile in return. 

“Thank _you_ , Miya-san!”

The rest of the players go through the line, and Iwaizumi puts a hand on his good shoulder—the one that _isn’t_ being iced—right as Ushijima _slams_ a cross shot. “I shouldn’t have told you to do that last rep. That’s my fault. You said you were in pain.” 

Atsumu shrugs, mindful of the ice. “It was gonna happen. Better now than on the court.”

The other assistant coaches do one-on-one assessments with clipboards while Hibarida sits back and watches it all unfold. He addresses Atsumu without taking his eyes off the players. “That’s rather Nietzsche, coming from you of all people, Miya.” 

Atsumu shrugs again. He doesn’t know who that is.

He eyes Kiyoomi’s black tee next in line. As always, Kiyoomi looks so stupidly _cool_. His sweat looks like sparkles on his alabaster skin and his beautiful tight curls tucked behind a headband making him look like some sexy footballer. He shakes out his arms before stepping up to the caddy to reach for a volleyball to toss to Ikuta. Atsumu focuses on his feet—like he usually does when he’s setting to his spikers—and _not_ Kiyoomi’s stupid (handsome) face.

He feels helpless like this. He reaches into his shirt to grab at his ring and fiddle with it. He’s used to it like this—not where it’s sat on his finger for the past two months. He swears the weight of the gold chain helps his balance on the court. 

There’s a split second before Kiyoomi jumps in his leadup, just a _breadth_ of indecision in his last step that’s written into reality when he leaps and the ball hits the bottom of his palm for the connect. 

Granted, it’s a good toss and a good spike. But neither is good _enough_. 

Kiyoomi lands with a frown. Atsumu sighs in frustration. 

Hibarida chuckles. “You saw that too?” 

“It was hard not to,” he mutters. And because he feels responsible by proxy: “I’ll talk to him, coach.” 

After the team finishes suicides in a collective groan and right before they start their scrimmage, Atsumu hands Kiyoomi his yellow and green water bottle. Kiyoomi nods at him and greedily suckles most of it down before handing it back. “Thanks.” 

“Those were some pretty shitty spikes out there.” 

Kiyoomi looks away. Atsumu follows his gaze to where Shouyou and Ikuta are engaged in a conversation of which is... _mostly_ ontomontpeia. Tobio stands next to them, looking rather bored with life. Probably wishing he was out banging Italians. Or Shouyou. After all these years, he still hasn’t figured their dynamic out.

Atsumu snaps his fingers in front of him. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to ya. Why are you hesitating so much?” He’s never hesitated like that before—not even when he started working with Tobio, whose precision tosses were _admittedly_ a little scary to hit. 

Kiyoomi shrugs and turns back to him but doesn’t meet his eyes. _Embarrassed. He’s embarrassed._

“Hey,” Atsumu repeats, gentler this time. “I’m not makin’ fun’a ya. I just know ya can do so much better.” 

Kiyoomi looks at him then and utters one, sad, lonely word: _“sorry_.” 

Shit, that’s bad. Damage control. Did something happen when Atsumu wasn’t looking? Did Aran try touching him again? Is he having an episode? Unknowingly, running through the many program scenarios of _What’s Wrong With My Husband This Time_ , is causing Atsumu’s breath to come faster. “What’s wrong? Are ya okay? Do ya need—do you have yer—ah, _ah_ —do ya need to step _oof—”_

Kiyoomi claps a sweaty hand over his mouth. “Shut _up._ ” 

Atsumu does and Kiyoomi lets his hand drop. Atsumu’s already looking for some antibacterial wipes on the bench when his husband stops him. “I’m sorry. But they’re… _not the same_.”

“Eh? Come again?” 

“His tosses,” Kiyoomi clarifies. “I’m… having a hard time adjusting, I suppose.” 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Kiyoomi is just as scared as he is. 

He offers his best smirk on a silver platter. “Why didn’tcha just say ya missed me?” 

He does not take the bait. Not even a stir in those black eyes. 

Atsumu lets the facade drop with a slump of his shoulders. “Yeah, it sucks, but it’s best I ease up on the shoulder for the time bein’ so I can get back to ya and the rest of the Jackals quicker.” Yeah. That sounds right. He continues with, “we can talk about this more later, if ya want. But ya should probably get back to it before ya stop sweatin’.” 

Kiyoomi sighs. _Oh, that’s not the whole problem._

He adjusts his taped ice pack. “Loosen yer shoulders on yer third step. Focus on gettin’ to the ball. The ball _is_ goin’ to get to ya, ya know. If yer not hesitating so much, you’ll get yer fingers on it before it starts to drop into yer palm.” He nods over to where Shouyou is challenging Hoshiumi to a handstand contest after practice. The latter is _definitely_ interested. “Maybe ask Sho-kun how he deals without Tobio-kun. He probably has heaps of experience workin’ with setters that don’t serve his menu.” 

Saying it like that, kind of sounds like Atsumu’s dying. He puts that feeling in a box, and then in a _smaller_ box to take out when he’s ready to play victim during an argument or something. 

Even though Shouyou is his favorite person on the team—right beneath Atsumu and right above his own _cousin_ —Kiyoomi looks pained. “I don’t speak stupid.” 

Atsumu snorts. “You do pretty well with me.” 

Without any explanation necessary, Atsumu knows the situation has been handled when Kiyoomi barks out an outrageous sound (laugh) and has to slap a hand over his mouth to shut his own self up. 

Atsumu only sort of takes pity on him when everyone in the gym stares openly at his husband like they’ve just seen their dead ancestors come back to life, spike a ball, and head back down to their graves. 

Even Iwaizumi looks stunned when he jogs back to the bench from where he was taking a phone call in the hallway. “What was that?! It sounded like a cat just _died_.” 

Hakuba _howls_. “Jesus, I swore my car alarm just went off!”

“Do you think the dolphins heard him?” Yaku asks through his cackles.

“Probably,” agrees Hoshiumi and shoots Kiyoomi a sly grin. “Miya-san, is it a full moon out tonight?”

Atsumu waves his hands in a gesture to cut off Komori’s incoming remark. “ _Alright!_ None’ya’s get to make another wise-crack ‘less it’s approved by yer’s truly!” 

Silence. Kiyoomi looks like he wants to use his dirty hand to slap his forehead. And maybe strangle himself. Or Atsumu. Probably Atsumu.

“I couldn’t understand any of that!” Bokuto’s whine echoes and bounces on the walls in the quiet gym. “Oji! Oji! What did he just say? You speak Tsum-Tsum, right?!” Bokuto asks Aran, who shakes his head, ever the straight man.

“Something about how he needs approval?” Ikuta answers (un)helpfully from his sprawl on the floor—without a _lick_ of irony. Atsumu wants to follow Kiyoomi into the afterlife. 

Hikarida ends it all with a loud, “ _Positions, boys!_ ” Everyone scrambles from their rest in haste and into their designated teams. Their coach stops Kiyoomi with a hand upturned and honest-to-god smirks. “Better get that checked out, Miya.” 

Atsumu wishes he was allowed to use his phone. Does anybody have their phones? He’s never seen Kiyoomi so red. “Yessir,” Kiyoomi bows and ducks under the net, avoiding all the laughter he leaves in his wake. 

-

In their hotel room after the long day, Atsumu sits on Kiyoomi’s naked back as he gives him a good, oily rub down as an apology for making him laugh. 

They’d been forced to endure a dinner full of jokes at Kiyoomi’s expense, and around hour two of catching up, Atsumu started to get a little protective of his tall, sulking partner so he made promises of atonement and excused them from the table, making rude gestures to Yaku and Hakuba—the main culprits. But not before paying Iwaizumi five thousand _fucking_ _yen_ for a blackmail photo of Kiyoomi. 

Atsumu set a few towels down so they didn’t get the sheets dirty and maybe just in case his husband had enough energy for their marital activities. Atsumu knows _he_ does. He barely got any cardio in before his shoulder decided to check out. However, judging by the sleepy slits of Kiyoomi’s eyes, it’s another long night shower for Atsumu. Since the Kita Coffee Date, they had only briefly exchanged a sleepy handjob once and he’s slowly _dying_. 

As he works the stubborn knot in Kiyoomi’s right shoulder blade—and tries not to pick at an ingrown hair by his mole there—Atsumu wonders aloud, “what do you think of Batman and Robin?” 

“No,” comes the muffled response. 

Atumu is personally affronted. He thought it was an amazingidea. “C’mon! Ya get to wear a mask! And I get to wear some tights with undies. I think it’s a _great_ compromise.”

“No,” he repeats, firmer this time.

Kiyoomi had been somewhat prickly since Atsumu regaled the many stutters over coffee with Kita. They argued briefly over whether or not he was okay with Atsumu inviting him over for dinner, but he did admit to his reluctant excitement at the prospect of meeting Kita at Samu’s for their party. Atsumu thinks it’s best like this anyway. Kiyoomi is like a cat; it’s better to meet on neutral grounds for the first time rather than hissing in his own space. 

After that discussion in the car ride back to Osaka, Kita hadn’t come back up. Granted, life was pretty hectic at the moment. He still needs a costume.

Atsumu sighs. “Well, whatever. I’m wearin’ undies regardless,” he says as he moves onto the left side. He adjusts himself on Kiyoomi’s meaty thighs and tries not to grind his frustration into his ass crack. “Or maybe I won’t wear anythin’. Dress up like Adam and put a little onigiri on my dick. A little snack for ya.” 

“Disgusting,” Kiyoomi huffs into his elbow. 

Like this, he can imagine easily pushing his boxers down a bit and spitting on Kiyoomi’s cheeks so he can slide between them. Maybe the massage oil? That’d probably feel really good. After today he needs a little R&R. 

“Maybe,” he starts and leans down to whisper in Kiyoomi’s ear, “I’ll wear a collar. And ya can hold my leash. Bet ya’d like tuggin’ me around like yer puppy.” 

Kiyoomi hides his face into the pillow. Atsumu’s _got_ him. 

“Maybe,” he repeats. This time, he lets his mind take over his mouth, dropping him into a space he’s only known when Kiyoomi’s holding him down. “Maybe I can wear that purple massager and give ya the remote. Every time I do somethin’ a puppy wouldn’t do, ya can punish me. And people—they’ll pro’lly be wonderin’, and I’ll have to keep pretendin’ I’m not wearin’ a cage under my jock strap, thinkin’ about takin’ ya back to the kitchen and ridin’ yer long cock on that prep table until I’m beggin’ to come.” 

He waits a second to see if he hit the bullseye. 

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi prompts quietly, still hiding. 

Atsumu leans back and throws his shorts to the wind. He palms the precome gathering at the tip slicks himself up with a rough grip before pushing Kiyoomi’s cheeks together and making space for himself in between them. He moans, high and whiny, already so aroused he’s sick with sensitivity. 

“ _Ah_ —ya. I’ll pro’lly be cryin’ for it. You’ll have the key and I’ll keep on beggin’ ya to let me out so I can get hard and you’ll get yer own self off and drag me back out to the party—ah _fuck_ —” 

His husband lets him have a moment of top indulgence—clenching his sore muscles so Atsumu can sob about how good it feels—before he lifts himself up on his elbows and flops over so he’s facing Atsumu. As his eyes follow the lines of his body, he sees just _how_ interested Kiyoomi is in that costume idea. His chest rises and falls in constricted breaths and his eyes, still heavy-lidded, watch Atsumu with rapt interest as his index finger ghosts the head of his cock. Atsumu whimpers. 

“You were saying?” he asks sweetly.

Yeah, what _was_ Atsumu saying? He can’t remember now. All he feels is the tickle in his abdomen and an overwhelming urge to come all over Kiyoomi’s chest. “Let me ride ya,” and because he’s good: “please?” 

Kiyoomi lets his thumb and forefinger drop from teasing the underside of his hood. He folds his arms behind his head as he settles against the pillows. He gets, dare he say, _comfy_. Atsumu smirks. It's enough of an answer for him to scramble on shaky legs to find the Aesop drawstring bag full of packets of lube and condoms in his backpack. 

“Ya want to watch me finger myself?” he asks as he flops back onto the bed ungracefully. 

Some of the relaxation seeps out of Kiyoomi’s frame. “Not with your shoulder you’re not.”

Oh yeah. Prepping with his non-dominant hand sounds like a bitch. “Good thinkin’ baby.” He tosses two packets onto his chest and leans over to brush his nose against Kiyoomi’s chin as his deft hands start getting to work. “Can I kiss ya?” 

They’ve both already brushed their teeth, but Atsumu likes to ask anyway. Just so Kiyoomi can call the shots. Judging by the smirk on his face, his husband is going to have no problem calling _anything_.

“Puppies don’t talk,” he admonishes and _slaps_ _his ass._

It feels stupid good not to be focusing on his shoulder. The sizzling heat of Kiyoomi’s palm helps him forget where exactly he is on Earth right now. “A-again,” he begs, and grinds himself against Kiyoomi’s stomach as his arms come to loop around his neck.

“You’re still speaking,” Kiyoomi warns, and strikes down harder. 

Just the _sound_ of it makes Atsumu want to weep. Precome dribbles onto Kiyoomi’s abs and makes the slide he’s got going all the more tantalizing.

“ _Nghhh,”_ is all that comes out. 

Kiyoomi rips open the packet and just squeezes it directly into his crack. It’s _cold_. He whines as long fingers messily tease his entrance, warming it up and spreading it around in soothing circles. Kiyoomi plunges his index finger in first like he usually does. Atsumu immediately relaxes. Yeah. R&R.

He noses Kiyoomi’s earlobe, hoping he’ll get a kiss if he’s a good boy. He _really_ wants Kiyoomi’s long tongue in his throat right about now. 

But Kiyoomi’s an asshole. He inserts his middle finger and _hooks_ , using his freaky wrists to get his incredibly long digits _so_ close to where Atsumu wants them.

Atsumu grabs two fistfuls of curls and tries not to shout his frustration. He can’t talk. He doesn’t know what Kiyoomi would do if he tried to open his mouth and scream, “ _fuck me raw, baby!”_ It seems like the logical conclusion would be that he would halt his ministrations altogether and force Atsumu to get himself off tied against a chair or something equally mean. 

While that admittedly sounds like a _really_ fun challenge, he’s not about to waste Kiyoomi’s beautiful erection where it sits heavy and red against his abdomen. Atsumu sneaks a peak down at it in between their sweaty bodies and licks his lips unconsciously. It’s only been a week but it feels like forever.

Kiyoomi huffs an amused laugh. “You’re such a cockslut. I don’t know how you got girls to like you.” He takes his fingers out, and before Atsumu can whine at the loss, he’s pouring lube onto them and thrusting all three in at once.

Atsumu _keens_. Ah fuck. 

“Yeah, that face,” Kiyoomi comments through some shallow scissoring. “Wonder what your ex-girlfriends would think if they saw you like this,” he whispers filthily next to Atsumu’s ear. He gives it a tug with his teeth. “You’d probably like that though. Letting someone watch us while I fuck you. You’d be a wreck.” 

Atsumu briefly thinks of the flings with the men and women when he was 19-21. He can’t place any faces—just occupations, hairstyles and the taste of their orgasms. 

Only one face, from his past, comes to mind. 

Yeah.

_Yeah._

The _squelch squelch_ of Kiyoomi’s fingers spreading gets unbearably faster—Atsumu’s hips along with it. He can’t stop moaning; not using his voice to banter is actually really useful for letting him mindfully react to the sensations. He should shut up more often. 

Hmm. Nah. 

Suddenly, Kiyoomi pulls his fingers out and Atsumu leans forward with a sigh of relief. He totally would have come with another couple of minutes of that. 

A condom gets rolled onto Kiyoomi’s member—the rest of the lube with it. 

“Mount,” Kiyoomi orders. 

_Jesus. He really got into it._ Atsumu shivers. He pushes himself up into shaky hands and leans back to take Kiyoomi’s cock, heavy in his hand, and guides it inside him.

He sinks down slowly, hand braced on Kiyoomi’s knee. Did he get _bigger?_ He’s never felt so full. Granted, it’s been a while since he’s been on top. He waits patiently for Kiyoomi’s next command as he settles: “move.”

With that, Atsumu utilizes all the energy in his thighs that had been sitting anxiously patient on a bench throughout practice. He bounces, not minding his own cock slapping between their bodies and instead focuses on that sinful sensation he gets when he places his good arm on Kiyoomi’s chest to hold his weight, brushing up against a bundle of nerves that make him _scream_.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Atsumu shouts into the room that smells already so heavy with sex that he’s ready to suffocate himself with it.

“God,” Kiyoomi grunts, his hips snapping to meet Atsumu somewhere in the middle. “You can’t shut up can you?” He asks, and manhandles Atsumu’s cheeks, spreading them apart and smacking them like he’s really not mad at _all_ that Atsumu is a screamer.

A fist pounding through the wall. “ _Shut up ya fucking bunnies!”_

Sounds like Hakuba who’s rooming with Hoshiumi. Atsumu looks down at Kiyoomi who has a similar look of recognition dawning on his sweaty forehead. Atsumu lets out a cheap moan as he hits his prostate on a hip roll. They both smirk. 

“Ahhhhhhhhhh! _Nghh!”_ Atsumu wails, facing the walls. It’s not really fake if Kiyoomi starts giving him all he’s got.

Another fist. From the _other_ wall. “ _Can you please keep it down?!”_ Sorry Shouyou.

“Is this what you wanted, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi whispers, plants his feet on towels and _bucks_. “Lucky you, you get an _audience_.” 

Fuck.

It’s hot. 

“D-do you think—” Kiyoomi groans and starts jerking him off,“—Kita-san would want to watch you like this?”

Atsumu gives up on trying to remain upright. He slumps over onto Kiyoomi’s sweaty chest as his husband takes over graciously, fully angling his hips right where he needs him. 

With Kiyoomi’s approval, Atsumu pictures it:

_Fully clothed. Watching. Kissing him when Kiyoomi doesn’t. Guiding his neck to nuzzle between his thighs. Split open right down the middle. Filled to the brim, marked by the two people he wants most._

_Kiyoomi and Kita. In bed._

_Kissing._

Atsumu let’s go with a broken-off shout, streaks of his release painting his and Kiyoomi’s bellies. Kiyoomi lets go of his dick to throw him onto the bed and finish the job, coming so hard in the condom he collapses on top of Atsumu with his full weight; _kissing_ him with so much force it leaves his lips bruised. 

If Atsumu wasn’t so well-fucked, he’d probably feel a little attacked by the clapping he hears on the other side of the wall. 

_Wow._

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi mumbles in between breaths, somewhere near his neck. Little kisses along his jawline and teeth on his chin as he shallowly thrusts the rest of his load into Atsumu. His belly shakes with the feeling of it. “Me too.” 

Kita. _Kiyoomi_. In bed. _Together_. Now that it’s made a home in his imagination, it’s like a constant feedback loop. _Did he just—?_

It’s easy to write something like that off as dirty talk, but Atsumu _wants_. He wants whatever Kiyoomi will give him, even if it’s his dick in a sweaty sock, but him and Kita? What would that even look like? Atsumu _desperately_ wants to see it.

Finding his voice somewhere else on Earth proves difficult. “W-would ya? Ahem. Want… that?” 

Kiyoomi lifts his head up enough to catch a glimpse of Atsumu’s cherried face. It’s probably bad, since he decides it’s important enough to pull out and flop onto his back next to Atsumu, _completely_ outside of their towelled boundaries. 

“I’m... not sure,” Kiyoomi answers carefully, still catching his breath. “He _liked_ you.” 

Atsumu scoffs. “No he didn’t. I asked an’ he said it was the weirdest Sunday of his _life_. How much more obvious can ya get?” 

“By saying _‘I didn’t like you’_ ,” Kiyoomi deadpans. He’s about to run a hand across his face in frustration but stops himself in the nick of time. That was his prepping hand. He lets it drop on a bed of coarse chest hair, where it instinctively curls around the chain holding his ring. Atsumu wants to laugh at the irony. “I think I want to meet him first.” _Before I decide anything_ , is what he hears hidden in that sentence.

_Thump._

_Thump._

Atsumu admires the fly-aways and ringlets licking up the moisture of Kiyoomi’s brow. “I love ya, ya know,” he whispers seriously. 

“We need a shower,” his husband grumbles as he gets up to peel the condom off, but his body betrays himself with a pretty dusting of red, high on his cheeks.

Sprawled out on the bed like a cat, Atsumu absent-mindedly plays with the tacky, drying semen above his belly button while he listens to the sounds of Kiyoomi getting all the supplies out for their shower. He tries to think. Of what, he’s not completely sure. He’s still high on dopamine. Of Kita and Kiyoomi making out while he watches? Of course. Of the shoulder that feels like it’s been rubbed raw to the marrow? Yeah, that too. 

All he knows is that his birthday can’t come fast enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an accidental halloween/costume party fic! i'm almost done with the next chapter and i fucking can't with these two. shoot some costume ideas and i'll try and work them in ;-)
> 
> thanks so much for the love & support, ya guys are great!
> 
> next up: omi POV!
> 
> [my hq twotter](https://twitter.com/dindie__)


	4. omi's interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> omi thinks. and thinks. and decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) & subtle mysophobia. since i'm not well versed in mysophobia, i didn't feel very qualified to write it in depth! but i do have ocd so i drew from personal experience. pls enjoy a very light angsty omi POV!
> 
> [ my writing inspo playlist, ayy](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ATVKQAgObmFJgDMsqZpJW?si=uL1CMid_TyySptuHkpXuUg)

_Miya Atsumu is a pig_ , was his first thought.

Sakusa Kiyoomi watched in thinly veiled disgust from the other side of the net as the brunette wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, adjusted what was _undoubtedly_ his jockstrap (with the same hand), and clapped his teammate on the back during their spiking drills ( _with that same hand)_. All within the span of eleven seconds. _This_ was the first year setter everyone was talking about in _Volleyball Monthly?_

Horrifying.

He searched for him in the black-clad bodies lined up to bow their greetings before the first set of the final, and stopped suddenly. Wait. _There’s two of them? Which one is which?_

(Later, he learns, it’s the one with the _smirk_.)

The next time he had met Miya Atsumu, they’d both been in their second year and invited to All Japan. Kiyoomi had just been ranked 3rd best high school spiker in the previous month’s copy of his favorite magazine. He took up a small corner of the page dedicated to the other two aces: Wakatoshi and Kiryuu. However, when he flipped the corner of said page, he found a full spread and profile on a familiar face with freshly dyed blonde hair.

 _Miya Atsumu!_ It said at the top in red lettering, _The Best High School Setter in ALL of Japan?!_ He couldn’t pinpoint the feeling settled in his chest. Was he mad? Jealous? He threw that month’s copy away with the Monday trash, his own article be damned.

Confused, and annoyed at his confusion, Kiyoomi avoided him like the plague. Without Wakatoshi from Miyagi to sulk with (like he’d hoped), he hid during free time (the usual) and looked away first when their eyes accidentally met during stretches (not so usual). 

(The only exception to his personal rule of avoiding Miya Atsumu was, of course, cockroaches.)

Then came the practice matches. He'd cycled through so many team configurations during training but when he rotated into the last group of the day, he felt. Well. Hmm.

Hitting a Miya Atsumu toss was…

 _“Nice,”_ his mouth betrayed, when he had landed. He looked at Miya. _“Nice toss.”_

Miya had smirked. _I know,_ his smug eyes had replied.

Iizuna, Kiyoomi’s captain his second year, was a superbly talented setter that Kiyoomi held in very high regard. He was diligent, hard-working, and had lint roller refills in his backpack. With a consistency that Miya Atsumu had pointedly _lacked_ his first year, Iizuna had paved the way for Itachiyama’s victory in that first fateful final at Nationals.

But. 

Iizuna’s tosses never felt like that—like Kiyoomi was just given the keys to a door he never knew was locked. 

In the article on Miya in _Volleyball Monthly_ —somewhere in between the third paragraph and the rubbish bin _—_ a coach had described the talented effortlessness of Miya’s tosses to make best use of the spiker’s assets. It offered the outward appearance of improved skill or precision, but it’s magic actually occurred internally. It was the natural psychological reaction that his spiker’s had when they were set volleyballs that felt like they were _made_ for them. 

Kiyoomi stayed up that night staring at his reddened hand. _That_ was a _Miya_ toss? 

(He hadn’t realized Miya had been looking. Analyzing him; appraising him while he had his back turned. How else could he know that Kiyoomi liked the ball as high as the rafters and a meter away from the net? How else would he know that Kiyoomi liked to connect with the tips of his fingers first, so he can achieve his favorite topspin technique?)

The last time he saw Miya in high school, they were on opposite sides of the court again. He focused his stare on the Inarizaki spikers’ hands and pointedly ignored that same Miya smirk that he’d seen in a Mizuno ad. 

_Do they know_? Kiyoomi wondered as Miya’s twin unnecessarily called for a toss. The ball was going to him whether he wanted it or not. Kiyoomi jumped to block and watched the other Miya’s fingertips curl around the top of the ball like it was a glove. _Do they feel it too?_ The ball slipped through Kiyoomi’s fingers and fell out of bounds. Other-Miya looked stronger than he did a second ago.

In magazines, with Miya’s ad breaking up pages of products, there were whispers about Miya going pro. Even if his otousan already expressed his displeasure at Kiyoomi wanting to continue in the sport, Kiyoomi knew what his future looked like. 

A brief handshake under the net. Captain to Captain. Kiyoomi thought, _I’ll see you later, Miya._

After university, Kiyoomi had every V-League team foaming at the mouth trying to entice his collegiate MVP status to join their teams; promises of short-term contracts with enough money to buy a house in Roppongi Hills. All but the MSBY Jackals. The message was clear: _we don’t need you to win._

That was the last sign he needed.

And one late summer afternoon when he is twenty-one, with orange light filtering through the big windows in the Jackal’s empty gymnasium, he gets to hit an _Atsumu_ toss again. And again. And again. And—

“Geez, Omi-kun,” Atsumu remarks, in between breaths and hunched over his knees by the net. “Yer stamina is kinda scary.”

Kiyoomi is the one who gets to smirk this time. “Tired, Miya?” 

“Never.” 

—he learns, Miya Atsumu is just like him. 

After all the years spread between them, these moments are the least intense but somehow simultaneously the most important: 

Sakusa Kiyoomi watches in thinly veiled amusement as Atsumu lifts up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow. He adjusts his jock strap from the back and Kiyoomi hears it _snap_ against the swell of his glutes. He guzzles down water until it stains his t-shirt and drips onto the hardwood floors. He pats Meian on the shoulder (with the jockstrap hand) and wipes his wet chin on his clothed shoulder before running back to the net.

Kiyoomi thinks, _I have an extra towel, if you need to borrow one_. 

A week later, _I can give you a ride, if you're tired._

And a year later, _Anything. Everything. Take it. It’s yours._

-

  
  


When Kiyoomi wakes up, he feels a tingle in his toes and an itch under his fingernails. 

The bedroom is still a cool blue in early dawn. Outside the large window, the yellow gingko tree sways in the currents that tend to hit the hill their house sits on. Maybe that’s what woke him up. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, and when he does, he turns to look at his bed partner. 

Atsumu snores loudly after consuming copious amounts of dairy and alcohol respectively, but even when he doesn’t, Kiyoomi wears a pair of pink ear plugs. Just in case. He claims they’re because he’s a light sleeper when Atsumu asks and Atsumu doesn’t question it. He refuses to tell his partner about the snoring since it will inevitably cause a mental breakdown, the same caliber of that one time he had douched too quickly and furiously and Kiyoomi had to run their bedding through a bleach wash at one o'clock in the morning. (They didn’t have penetrative sex for three months and Atsumu hasn’t douched since the day they put the nonslip bath mat in the shower.)

He settles back down against his memory foam pillow facing Atsumu. His husband lies against his hard pillow with his mouth hanging open. Kiyoomi takes his ear plugs out and spots shiny drool glistening on his chin. 

Miya Atsumu is _still_ a pig. 

It’s almost soothing listening to his heavy nasal honks, and if he didn’t catch the drool, Kiyoomi would feel more inclined to stay in bed to watch his rather ugly sleeping face. 

But he’s itchy. 

After a moment, he pulls the covers back softly and walks to the closet to take off all his clothes. After depositing them in the appropriate hampers, he pulls on a pair of briefs from the top drawer of his dresser, pants from his bottom drawer, and a sweatshirt from the middle. Lastly, he grabs a pair of thick socks from the top drawer and a mask from on top before padding down the hallway and to the glass sliding doors that lead to the deck. 

He grabs his work boots from the container by the door, tugs them on ( _right to left_ ) and walks down the stairs ( _right foot first_ ) and over to the small shed that holds all the tools that balm his hands. 

Putting on the gloves ( _right to left_ ) feels like aloe. The shears, like salve. He grabs a plastic bag and heads back out.

Looking at the flower beds, nothing is perfect. The rose bushes are odd lumps and the peonies that were planted when they first moved in, two years before, still haven’t bloomed. They’re held up by essex plant supports, bought after he stressed about why they kept falling over. The limelight hydrangeas have some sick branches lingering from the last heatwave of August. Dead flowers accompany the creamy burgundy blooms like fallen soldiers. 

He’s learned, somewhere between Tokyo and Hyogo, that even _nature_ wasn’t perfect. Nothing was. And try as he might, _that_ fact would never change. It doesn’t mean he won’t stop trying.

Yet, when he looks up after an hour or so of weeding, he sees the sun begin to rise in an orange gradient against the trees that protect the botanical gardens. The three or so sunflowers that are still left on their stems, stand erect again. He stares at the ochre petals and feels something akin to relief wash over his skin and stretch to reach under his nail beds. 

He takes off his gloves ( _order unknown???_ ) so he can admire the flower with his bare fingers.

“Hey.” 

He glances up. Atsumu shoots him with a sleepy smile from over the railing of their deck. He’s freshly showered and wearing his own clothes—not one of Kiyoomi’s shirts or pair of boxers like he usually does after a morning romp. It’s... thoughtful. He doesn’t know if he could take knowing that his organized wardrobe had been disturbed right now.

Atsumu closes his eyes and leans into the light that hits his cheeks. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the morning dew, and shivers. “S’cold out today,” he comments needlessly and stretches his arms overhead. “I made ya some tea,” he continues and throws a nitrile gloved thumb over his shoulder. “The thermos is on the table.”

Kiyoomi hums. Atsumu retreats back inside.

As the day progresses mutely, he finds Atsumu on their front porch frowning at a music booklet and playing with the acoustic guitar he bought when he did an especially bad television interview where he talked about his hobbies outside of volleyball ( _none_ ). He only touches it when he’s bored without Kiyoomi to entertain him ( _never_ ). 

“Hey,” Kiyoomi starts. 

There’s too much to talk about, he decides. He needs to think, process and recuperate. Preferably running outdoors or doing something repetitive like rereading Ogawa or watching another Iwai Shunji film. 

Atsumu plucks at strings that sound out of tune. He coughs. Probably to hide the fact his skill has not progressed in two years. “I just got my marks back on my final exams. Passed with flying colors.” He doesn’t look up from his book; Kiyoomi can see how hard he is trying to hide his pride. “Also, Samu called. Said he wanted yer opinion on somethin’. Wouldn’t tell me what.” He smirks. “Yer not planning a surprise for me, are ya?” 

Kiyoomi hasn’t looked at his phone since putting on one of Atsumu’s jazz playlists for the train ride home from Tokyo yesterday morning. The thought causes his stomach to turn like laundry in the rinse cycle. He hums. 

Atsumu interprets that with, “I can tell ‘im yer busy today.” He looks up from his booklet at Kiyoomi with the most pitiful hazel eyes. Kiyoomi wants to strangle him. 

“No,” Kiyoomi decides, after consulting with the steady heartbeat and lack of vibration assaulting his skull. “I’ll message him right now.” And before he forgets: “good job with your exams.” 

Atsumu gives him a smile that’s brighter than this morning’s sun and strikes a dissonant chord purposefully ( _accidentally_ ) to celebrate the compliment. Kiyoomi wants to kill him.

When he finds his phone, he sees multiple LINE messages from team members wanting to catch up soon (without Atsumu or else they would have contacted his technologically dependent counterpart) and a few perfunctory words of congratulations from his older half-siblings on the game. There are several emoji filled messages from his younger sister in their family group chat. His otousan sent pictures of the game playing on the television in the break room and there’s one from his okaasan in her team Japan jersey accompanied by a lengthy message about how she knows a good acupuncturist in Tokyo who could see Atsumu about his shoulder. 

He replies with, _Thank you for your support. Don’t worry, his PT session went well yesterday. Just needs two weeks of rest._ He does not mention how weepy Atsumu got afterwards. The doctors assured the rotator cuff tendonitis would be fine. It would get better with rest, ice, and flexibility exercises—something Atsumu never takes the time to do unless forced. Kiyoomi sighs. He feels like a glorified babysitter.

There’s two missed calls from Osamu. Three messages, all asking him if he’s busy. To call if he can. Is he ignoring him? Because if he is, then fuck him. 

Kiyoomi frowns. His relationship with Osamu… was… well… 

_“Oi, Kiyoomi-kun! Why weren’t ya answering my calls? I was worried Tsumu locked ya in his sex dungeon, ha. Hey, what are ya doin’ tonight? I know ya have practice early tomorrow, but I have a favor I want to ask of ya, do ya think ya can meet me by Namba Station? There’s some knives I gotta—”_

He already feels a migraine coming on at the thought of being in crowds. However, it’s unusual for Osamu to _ask_ to meet instead of just appearing out of thin air. “Where?” 

_“Ichimonjichuki in Doguya-suji. I’ll drop ya a pin.”_

_  
__-_

Under rows of neon blinking _open_ and _closed_ signs, Kiyoomi decides he hates Osamu. For being unnecessarily rude to Atsumu when he didn’t deserve it, and being painstakingly quiet when he _did._ Also, for trying to insert himself into his life by dragging him to a culinary shopping district in the bustle of a Tuesday evening to _bond_. 

He turns from admiring the scrolls of inspiring words that chef’s use to console themselves in the heat of the backroom, to where Osamu is picking up ( _all of the_ ) knives and testing their weight. He can’t decide between the Hattori one and JCK Original. He wants Kiyoomi’s opinion. Kiyoomi wants to strangle him ( _and not from cuteness_ ). 

“I’m not the one using them,” he tries to argue and not because he doesn’t want to touch anything in here without seeing some food handler cards from the store’s clients.

Osamu lifts one up and brings it down with a _woosh_ cutting the air. Kiyoomi takes a small step back. “I dunno, yer more of a cook than Tsumu. Thought ya’d know a little bit more about this stuff.” He shrugs and gestures at the bag of apples hanging off his elbow with the _knife_. “Think they’d let me cut one to try it out?” 

“Please don’t,” Kiyoomi nearly begs. 

After offering a freshly sliced apple, (Kiyoomi declined, _no fucking thank you)_ Osamu munches on his fruit like a chimp and remarks through a full mouth, “I want the Cargonext Gyuto.”

Kiyoomi turns to look at the hundred or so knives that litter the display cases. He frowns. “Was that the JCK?” 

Osamu finishes his apple and stands next to a familiar looking box. He pats it affectionately. “It’s 17000 yen, but I figure that’s well within yer budget.” 

“Um,” Kiyoomi responds. Was his mask covering his ears? “Excuse me?” 

“My gift,” Osamu explains. “Payback for showing ya what Tsumu wanted for our birthday.” 

Of course. Atsumu has a name for Osamu’s usual manipulative ways of getting things he wants. He can’t remember it, he’s too busy frowning at Osamu’s amused face.

“I already got him something,” Kiyoomi refutes. 

Osamu laughs like he just made an especially funny joke. “No offense, Kiyoomi-kun, but he ain’t gonna read the book ya got him. He’ll look it up online and say he did. He’ll probably spend more time studyin’ _index cards_ with potential questions you’ll ask him than the time he would spend _actually_ readin’ the goddamn thing.” 

Wait. Does that mean… Kiyoomi wants to strangle him. Both of them. Mostly Atsumu for lying and being such a good actor; _“Ah, I’ve always wanted to read this series! Thank ya, baby. Yer the best. Let me thank ya prop—”_

Something about his eyes and brows must signal his distress. Osamu responds like he does in the face of all of Kiyoomi’s idiosyncrasies—he laughs until he cries. _“Yer face!”_ he exclaims and slaps his knees. The storekeeper asks Kiyoomi if he’s alright. Kiyoomi wants to light the place on fire in hopes Osamu will catch first. 

Ever since he started seeing Atsumu, he’d become a target. He misses the days of feared expressions and distances kilometers long between him and the next person. Now people think he’s funny. It’s like his proximity to Atsumu ( _the idiot_ ) is only explained by his own stupidity. Maybe he is stupid. For marrying an idiot and having a brother-in-law that is equally, genetically, an idiot. Idiot squared.

He stuffs a hand in his jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. He wordlessly hands the card to Osamu.

Following Osamu to their next shopping location, Kiyoomi tries not to think about the Kawakami book he has to return. Or what else Atsumu has weaseled his way out of through bright smiles, crinkled eyes, and mind-numbingly good head.

“Yer pretty quiet today, Kiyoomi-kun,” Osamu observes. He jostles his brand new boxed purchase under his arm. “Yer usually quiet, but I dunno. Today ya seem pretty tense. Was this why ya weren’t returning my calls?” 

Another thing about Osamu that Kiyoomi hates is his unnecessary habit of pointing things out that don’t need to be talked about. He and Suna have probably only been together for so many years because they can bond over this ritual. 

Osamu fiddles with his cap, trying to act nonchalant. “Did Tsumu do somethin’? Ya two fighting?” 

Kiyoomi hums. No they’re not, he wants to answer. They haven’t had a big fight since Atsumu bought that stupid Toyota with poor mileage. Does that mean a big one is coming? Kiyoomi briefly thinks about these past weeks since his holiday in Tokyo. _Kita-san._

No, he decides. They aren’t fighting. He just needs to think. 

Atsumu does a thing when he’s so entrenched in a problem that he speaks mindlessly for hours before finally arriving at his destination. When Kiyoomi had confronted him about how annoying it was to sit there and have to listen to tangent after tangent about energies and _yesterday's lunch_ , Atsumu had wobbled his lips before blowing up in an explosion of ugly tears and biting words. After apologies in the shower, Atsumu explained he needed a sounding board. Whatever that means. 

Kiyoomi was ten years between two batches of siblings—the older ones from his otousan’s first marriage, and Izumi, who was an unwelcome and loud-mouthed surprise to his already established life. He had a cousin his age that showed up for New Years and his birthday, and later _volleyball._ He didn't have friends in school, and the teachers pitied him without doing anything about it. He learned between days of parents being on call and long nights at the architecture firm that if he had a problem, he would deal with it himself. If it was big enough, he would say something. People had their own lives. 

However, Kiyoomi supposes Atsumu has been pretty privileged to have gone through it all with Osamu.

Sounding board, hm.

“Are you… happy with Suna-kun?” Kiyoomi asks tentatively, and curses the uneasiness tinting his tone.

Happiness is a sore spot for the twins, but Osamu gives him a cheeky grin when he looks at him. “Ya, bet. That guy rocks my world.”

Sigh. That sounds like something Atsumu would say. 

“You don’t think that perhaps there were other options out there for you?” 

Osamu looks taken aback by the question. Within two seconds flat, his grin turns from warm and friendly to icy cool. “Ya thinkin’ of leavin’ my brother? Huh? I got a new knife.” He rattles his box in warning. “I’m lookin’ forward to usin’ it since it’s so sharp and new, ya know?” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he tells Osamu as they wait for the pedestrian light to turn green. He won’t stoop to Atsumu’s level of nervous finger picking, but he’s nearing it. “I just meant hypothetically.”

This does not make Osamu feel better. “I swear on my ‘tousan’s grave that if you even—“ 

“I’m not leaving him!” Kiyoomi shouts, fed up and uncaring of the stares of onlookers. Quietly, he adds, “I’m worried I may not be…”

“You may not be enough for him? May not be affectionate enough for him? That maybe he deserves a little better which is sayin' a lot?” 

“Yes. All of those things.” 

Again, Osamu looks struck. “Dude… I was kiddin’... Ya really think that?” The light turns green. They continue walking in silence as Kiyoomi ponders this question. Sounding board. Scoff. Right.

Kiyoomi had a big fat inkling when they started dating that a man with a face like Atsumu’s was too good to keep for himself and he decided to be selfish anyway. The affection? No… he’s good about keeping Atsumu satisfied in that department; he trusts Atsumu to complain or cry when he’s slacking. That he deserves better? 

_I want to give you the world,_ is what he thought the first time he woke up to his ugly sleeping face. In the face of a mini-episode like this morning, Atsumu quietly goes about his business, instead of rushing to Kiyoomi with a new dumb thought in his brain every five minutes like he usually does. Atsumu _does_ deserve better. Kiyoomi’s never met a person with a bigger heart. Hm. Actually. Maybe Hinata. 

Somewhere along those unsteady first few months together, they mutually decided to dedicate their lives to learning each other. So where does this Kita fit in?

Inexplicably, Kiyoomi had chosen a man with _too_ big a heart. It still had room for another. 

Osamu correctly assumes his silence for nervousness (seriously, _damn_ him). He stares down at his shoes and mutters to himself, “ _I hate myself for this,”_ before louder, to Kiyoomi, he says, “Tsumu’s gone for ya. I don’t think ya need me to tell ya that.” 

Images of mornings being woken up to breakfast being cooked and laundry already drying on the racks, come to mind. Atsumu’s pinched face of concentration as Kiyoomi explained his laundering techniques for the first time in that old Sonenji apartment with the big, green courtyard. The smell of his Jo Malone cologne lingering in the locker room after their first practice on the Jackals together and the many times Atsumu unnecessarily offered to clean volleyballs for him during serving drills.

“I know that,” Kiyoomi says. He does. Atsumu tells him everyday through whispered _I love ya_ ’s and acts of silent service when he feels his words aren’t getting through to Kiyoomi ( _they always do,_ he begrudgingly admits).

Osamu sighs. “Well, good. I ain’t repeatin’ myself.” 

Atsumu has a big heart. That’s his problem. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, has to push and shove desks and cabinets to make room for Atsumu in his mind. Now this Kita is knocking on the door and patiently waiting for the room to be cleaned before entering. He supposes that’s his problem to deal with on his own.

They arrive at their destination, and Kiyoomi feels his headache come back tenfold. 

“Yeah,” Osamu shamelessly grins. “Tsumu’s a freak. He was tellin’ me what y’all were doin’ in Tok—” 

Kiyoomi holds up a hand. “I’d actually rather you not finish that sentence.” 

“Sure thing,” Osamu agrees sweetly and holds the pink door open for him. 

In between frilly lingerie and Osamu getting yelled at for trying to sniff edible chocolate lubricant— _"it’s for culinary purposes, okay?”—_ he finally sees it. It’s snugly draped over a mannequin and held together by silver clasps. A white leather choker connected to a white leather body harness that’s directly out of Atsumu’s wettest dream.

Osamu, holding a feathery boa and a rather _large_ bottle of lube, smiles and leans into his space. “Freaky, right?” 

Kiyoomi blushes. He wants to say something about how freaky Atsumu can really be, to make Osamu uncomfortable—that he’s a horny _menace_. Also, maybe make a snarky comment about how strange it is that Osamu’s helping him with this, since they don’t really interact outside of settings that include food. That Osamu’s also genetically a freak.

But.

All he can think about is how good Atsumu will look in this. Kiyoomi wants to give it to him. To show him off.

He hums.

With several new purchases in his arms, he walks with Osamu back to the station. The crowd has thinned somewhat; harried and tired businessmen and women scrambling to get to their platforms after a long workday. Tourists taking pictures. High school kids lingering in the city before they have to head back to the suburbs to pretend to do homework.

Osamu says, “Tsumu’s happy. Don’t think I’ve ever seen ‘im this happy.” He rattles his box again with a warning grin. “Don’t blow it. I don’t wanna win so easily.” 

Kiyoomi smiles. He’s wearing his mask.

Right as Osamu’s train pulls up on the tracks, he snaps his fingers in realization. “Oh! And he said he wants a cat. Actually, I’m pretty sure he said that’s what he wanted in the first place. Sorry!” 

  
  


-

  
  


Somehow this moment is the most intense and the least important: 

It’s their first game of the season against EJP Raijin. Kiyoomi rotates to the right of the net after Bokuto breaks their deuce with an impossible line shot—barely within bounds on the replay they were forced to watch on a technical challenge. Coach Foster nods to their assistant coach, Yamazaki, who pats Atsumu on his good shoulder. Atsumu holds a number 22 in his hand. 

Behind Kiyoomi, Satoh grimly jogs to the edge of the court and waits for the whistle before he switches places with Atsumu. Upon his arrival, Atsumu gives him a grin that’s brighter than the sun on that melancholic morning two weeks ago. He saunters with the ball to the back of the court where he takes his position.

Seven steps. Hybrid. It's very nearly out of bounds; Komori’s there in a second—quicker than lightning. His cousin catches his eye with a grin and Kiyoomi sighs before turning his attention to their strikers. It’s a quick at 2. He jumps with Atsumu to block. 

“One touch!” He yells to Shion, who’s already barreling outside of the court to get the ball up. It brushes the edge of the fist. 

“Short!” he screams. “Cover!” 

The ball is hurling directly for the commentator’s table. Beside him, air whizzes and materializes into nothing as Atsumu sprints for the wayward ball. 

He kicks a table out of the way—forcing people to scatter away like bugs. Atsumu takes one large step into a low crouch and falls onto his back when he sees the ball's low trajectory ( _never an underhand toss_ ).

He does not need to shout, _Omi!_ when he pushes with ten fingers from his chest and up into the air—as high as the rafters and a meter away from the net. The ball is coming to him, whether or not he wants it to, and Kiyoomi is already in the air. Suna, still distracted by Atsumu’s theatrics, is not quick enough to get to him. With the tips of his fingers, the ball starts to fall into Kiyoomi’s palm, but not before it _snaps._ With his favorite topspin technique, it slams straight down onto the orange floor. 

They take the fifth set. While the team celebrates an impossible quick at that low angle, Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu who’s already looking at him with the most awestruck expression. 

Twelve years after their first meeting, Kiyoomi thinks, _whatever you want, I want. Wherever you go, I’m going too._

  
  


-

  
  


It all comes together for him in a single moment.

Miya Kiyoomi is very nearly drunk off of two shots of tequila. He’s a lightweight. Sue him. 

The air in Onigiri Miya is sticky with the culmination of too many young, male (sweaty) bodies clustered together, laughing, drinking and dancing to their heart’s content the day after a good game. Kiyoomi wears a black turtleneck tucked into black slacks—both too tight to offer any solace of circumventive circulation in this environment. His black mask is tugged down so he can sip at the bottle of beer in intervals. His ears feel pinched by the devil horned headband he wears.

Next to him, Atsumu looks like he’s fallen from BDSM heaven, proudly wearing his new leather harness with a cheap pair of wings hooked onto his shoulder straps. The small white shorts he wears hides nothing. They decided it was hotter to wait anyway. 

Kiyoomi admires his husband as he gestures with his whole body when speaking to Suna about an especially good EJP play in the third set or something. Kiyoomi’s not really paying attention, he can’t, with Atsumu looking like this.

His skin glistens with translucent glitter that will probably never get out of their expensive sheets. _This_ Kiyoomi, nearly drunk off of two shots of tequila, does not care. Especially when his abs look like that. He can’t wait to see the marks when he takes the harness off tonight. He already looks like a feast perfectly catered to Kiyoomi’s hunger. 

His slacks are too tight. He sips his beer and focuses instead on the pit stains that Suna sports under the sleeves of his nurse’s uniform. 

“...ain’t that right, baby?” Atsumu turns to ask him. What were they talking about again? Kiyoomi feels caught. Atsumu smirks. “Were ya listenin’? Or were ya just admirin’ my ah—”

Just then, Atsumu’s eyes get comically wide and his pupils expand with his caught breath. Kiyoomi wants to ask him what’s wrong, but his attention is so transfixed he’s not sure the words will reach him. 

He frowns and turns to look over his shoulder.

A farmer walks into a restaurant, takes off his jacket, and walks down the stairs. His silver hair is tucked behind two pink ears, hidden under a straw hat. He takes off the hat with arms that speak of strength hidden in one’s own work. Russet-colored eyes take in the scene before him like Moses returning from Mt. Sinai, holding two small wrapped packages in quality craft paper. He wears overalls. And nothing else. 

Suna waves his hands in the air. “Oi! Kita-san! Over here!” To Atsumu, under his breath, he whispers, “who the _fuck_ let Kita-san off the farm looking like that.”

Atsumu blushes furiously and desperately looks to Kiyoomi for help. It takes him a second to understand what’s happening. 

Kiyoomi looks back at Kita, who makes blistering eye contact with him as he approaches. While the other man’s stature is several centimeters shorter than his own, he feels the power hidden beneath the cool facade as he looks down at him. Kiyoomi feels small in the face of something so great.

(Briefly, he remembers Atsumu’s description of Kita after he had his gay panic moment in Kiyoomi’s lap. It feels so long ago, but the words _respect_ and _command_ float into his alcohol-addled brain, fittingly.) 

He feels Atsumu clutching his forearm with a heat that sinks through the layer of his sweater and _burns_ his skin. Through their shared point of connection, he feels his own heart beat quicker and his own alcohol blush taking over his ( _already_ ) hot cheeks. 

Kita’s lip ticks up in a small smirk.

Kiyoomi thinks, _oh. I get it now._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first chapter with no orgasm (that we know of 🤪) 
> 
> i know, i know. pls don't kill me for holding out on this party! there's just so much! and i felt like omi still had some shit to figure out before we get to, ahem, _the good stuff_
> 
> as always, thank u for ur kudos, comments & bookmarks. without y'all i probs would NOT have had the courage to post this shit. 
> 
> anyway, have a safe, happy, and spooky halloween !!!!! xx


	5. tonight's the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: lots of alc in this chap! 
> 
> sorry for bein so late! here's ur food. i hope u have a good meal xx

Atsumu must have had some really good karma in his previous life cycle. 

Granted, if he was a little pickier about how it was going to come about, he thinks the first seventeen years of his life were an embarrassing trainwreck. Some of that sexy karma would have been put to good use sprinkled throughout the years of puberty where he practiced speaking in front of a mirror without squeaking like a dog toy.

Still, standing in between two excessively hot men, (and his brother’s fiance of nearly ten years, but that’s neither here nor there)Atsumu thinks this isn’t so bad either. 

Kita, once he approaches their group, nods at Kiyoomi first, Suna second. Then he turns to Atsumu. 

The eyes that have haunted nearly every orgasm since their fateful reunion two months ago, rake across his chest in an aborted polite way, stopping at his chest. He hasn’t had an ounce of shame all night, flaunting his body around people he works with, has grown up with, but Kita shows up and he suddenly has to fight the urge to put on a _muumuu._

“K-Kita-san,” he tries to greet, and promptly freezes when Kita’s caramel gaze hones in on his own wide eyes. Shit. “Uh, uh, ya know Omi-kun right?” he asks and tugs on Kiyoomi’s arm to jostle his frozen frame like he’s a glitched pixel. “Omi-kun, this is Kita-san.” 

Kita reaches into the front pocket of his overalls and pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer. While everyone including Suna—who is undoubtedly wearing the ugliest smirk—stares, Kita explains as he deposits a dollop in his right hand, “I was just on the train.”

Atsumu sneaks a glance at his husband. He’s staring intently at Kita’s calloused hands. When they’re dry, Kita extends a hand to Kiyoomi. “It’s nice to meet ya finally.” 

He’s actually a little jealous of Kiyoomi. He can't remember the last time he touched Kita’s hands. 

Finally finding his voice after they shake hands, Kiyoomi comments, “ _nice,_ ” and because he's a big idiot when he’s drunk, stumbles through the rest of his thought, “I mean. Nice to meet you.” 

_Nice,_ Suna mouths to Atsumu who wants to slap the nurse’s cap off his dumb head. 

Atsumu can distinctly remember the level of flustered he wore on his face when he first met Kita like it was yesterday. He comes to Kiyoomi’s rescue. “What are ya drinkin’? Omi-kun will go get ya somethin’.” 

Having finally broken their staring contest—Kiyoomi wins by default— Kita looks back to Atsumu. “Just beer is fine.” 

He shakes his husband’s arm again. It’s seriously dead weight at this point. “Omi-kun, why don’t ya go to the back and grab one for Kita-san.” _And maybe chug some water so you can get your shit together._ _I need your fat brain right about now._

Kiyoomi turns to Atsumu. With the low lighting, there’s too much happening in those dark eyes for Atsumu to translate but he spots a little speckle of gratitude somewhere in there. His husband’s hand lingers on his backside as he walks by. _Let’s talk. I’ll wait for you_. 

Once he’s gone, Atsumu remarks in wonder, “I can’t believe ya wore the overalls!” 

Suna raises his brow and points his water bottle at Kita. He’s not much of a drinker but when it’s Samu drinking, Atsumu knows _someone_ has got to take care of his brother and it sure as hell ain’t him. “This was your work?” 

“It was a suggestion I took seriously,” Kita tells them. “Aran-kun helped me find something.”

 _Aran!_ Atsumu doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him or kill him. Still, Kita’s here looking like _that_ so maybe he just owes him a couple thousand yen and some clean tosses the next practice they have. 

“Well ya look... _nice_ ,” Atsumu croaks out with a shaky grin. 

_Nice_ , Suna mouths again. This time to the ceiling.

Kita nods. That aborted once-over resumes as he takes in the rest of Atsumu’s outfit. “You, as well, Atsumu-kun.” 

Do the wings work? He kind of just wants to fly right on out of Onigiri Miya. Out of Osaka. Off of Earth.

Suna chuckles around another sip of water. “And me, Kita-san?” 

Kita takes a second too long to look away from Atsumu and turns to Suna. “You too. Is Osamu-kun dressed—”

Having heard his name, Osamu stumbles over, already three sheets to the wind. He greets their captain with a respectable slurred, “Ki-kita-san,” and then recalibrates with, “ _woah_. _Kitaaaa-san.”_ Suna’s arm winds around the doctor’s scrubs he wears. A little protectively, Atsumu notes. 

“I think we already established how good Kita-san looks,” Suna quietly discloses. He smirks at Atsumu. “Ain’t that right, Tsumu?” 

Yeah. 

_Yeah._

He hates Suna. “Ya,” he squeaks while admiring the muscles of Kita’s shoulders. His imagination got the tanlines wrong; they cut off mid forearm. No, Atsumu’s mostly just trying not to stare at the nipples that must be hidden under the denim straps. 

Kita hands the two gifts to Atsumu and Osamu respectively. “Happy birthday. It’s not much, but—“

Atsumu cuts him off with, “Ya didn’t have to!” right as Samu says, “Ya shouldn’t have!” 

They glare at each other. Atsumu grabs Samu’s before he can clumsily paw at it and smiles innocently at Kita. He found his perfect excuse to find Kiyoomi and maybe kiss the sense back into him. “Thanks, Kita-san! I’ll just go, uh, put these in the back.” 

He stumbles through the sweaty bodies—getting roped into an impromptu dance-off with Sherlock (Bokuto) and is politely rescued by Watson (Akaashi). Spike Spiegel (Adriah) smacks his ass, “ _It’s tradition where I’m from!”_ even though Atsumu _still_ doesn’t know which corner of the globe he sprouted up like a beanstalk from—and finally makes it to the low-hanging curtain that leads to the kitchen.

When he finds Kiyoomi in the back, his husband is sucking on his water bottle and glaring at his phone. He scowls when he sees he’s been disturbed, but it softens as he pockets his phone. 

“Where were you?” he asks, as he stuffs his water bottle back into his hanging coat. 

Atsumu holds the two gifts up in explanation and walks behind him to hide them in his own white duster hanging next to Kiyoomi’s trench. He’ll give Samu his gift after he finds out what they are. If it’s good enough he’ll keep it. He’s sure Samu’s too drunk to remember, anyway. 

Bouncing back to Kiyoomi, Atsumu slides behind him and whispers, “so what do ya think?” 

Kiyoomi snorts. He knows what he’s talking about. “Do you have a type?” he asks. 

Letting out a nervous laugh, Atsumu thinks, yeah, the hand sanitizer was kind of a dead giveaway. “So what if I do?” he counters flirtatiously. 

When Kiyoomi turns to face him, Atsumu tries to school his face into something smouldering. Inviting, maybe. The prep table is _right_ there and it looks like it has their name on it in big, fat bold letters. A neon sign pointing straight at Atsumu’s _butt_.

Kiyoomi has other ideas. He leans back against the table and folds his arms across his chest like a school teacher. “Do you want to do this?” 

“Fuck on the table?” he guesses, hopefully. “Uh, ya.” 

That earns him another snort and a slight head shake that tousles Kiyoomi’s curls. “No,” he responds like he _really_ is a school teacher about to lecture him about his bad attendance. Hot. “I meant him. Kita-san.”

“Do…” Atsumu trails off. He’s still kind of stuck on the image of Professor Kiyoomi in his head.

“Kita-san,” Kiyoomi finishes. 

Oh. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought. That wasn’t what he was thinking at all. In fact, it takes him five seconds too long for his synapses to start firing as he digests what he’s just heard. When he does, it’s _electric._

The first thing he registers is gratitude. For scoring a best friend in Kiyoomi—a _partner_. One that lets him grind on his belly whenever he’s horny, or lets him talk about another man in bed like it’s completely normal. He’s struck at how accommodating he is. Him. Kiyoomi. Obsessive, compulsive, _hot_ , Kiyoomi. Letting him indulge in all the deep, dark recesses of his mind that he’s been too afraid to tell anyone else about.

The second thing he notices is his cock taking interest in his shorts. 

While every moment _feels_ like it’s been leading up to this point, Atsumu still feels like he’s missing another puzzle piece to complete the big picture— the image is too hazy like it’s zoomed in too closely on the details. There are too many lingering questions floating around his brain and some that feel similar to doubt, disguised by self-deprecation. 

The first being: “he don’t like me that way, Omi. He _said—”_

“—nothing that betrayed how he really felt,” Kiyoomi argues. His hands come to rest on Atsumu’s shoulders as he looks down at him with his piercing black eyes. “You’re an idiot.” 

Atsumu shakes him off in a childish shrug. “It’s my _birthday._ Why do ya gotta be so mean?” 

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“I _resent_ that _—oomph!”_

Kiyoomi shuts him up with a hand tugging at his collar and his lips surging forward to silence the incoming rebuttal. He kisses like he’s branding Atsumu— white hot heat and a burning tongue scorching away the lingering foreign flavors of alcohol. The hand around his throat snakes its way up to his jaw where it grips and _tugs_ so he can lick his neck like he’s trying to savor the zest of the Jo Malone cologne Atsumu _doused_ himself in before leaving their house to sweat his night away.

“You taste disgusting,” he murmurs into the overheated skin. 

Still, he doesn’t stop. Atsumu wishes he _would_ stop. He’s about to walk out of here with a stiffy if he keeps on sucking open-mouthed like that. His hips jerk when his teeth come out to play. 

“O- _Omi_ —” he whines. 

The pleasure intensifies as Kiyoomi adds his tongue to the mix. He pulls off with a loud _smack_ and wipes the back of his hand to admire the mark he just left with heavy breaths. 

Kiyoomi’s a little drunk off the shots they took with Samu upstairs. This is a fact Atsumu has been aware of since their first copulation: Kiyoomi is a lightweight. It makes the necessary alcoholic intake to deal with crowds—and _sweaty men_ —a lot easier to meet. Neither will care about the hand sanitizer tonight. 

Atsumu grabs a fistful of his turtleneck to fuse their mouths’ back together in another sexy dance of hot, savory sensations. He gets a hand under Kiyoomi’s shirt to play with the tight curls of his happy trail. 

“Oh— this isn’t the bathro—oh, hi Kiyoomi-kun. Atsumu-kun. Um. Nice party? Sorry… I’ll just—” Komori backs right out in a drunken stumble, braining himself on the opposite wall in his haste to leave. 

Atsumu chuckles as they separate with the smack of their spit still glistening on their lips. It’s his birthday and he’s feeling a little shameless as his hands wander around Kiyoomi’s ass to keep him where he’s at. They’re not finished here. Komori is a big boy.

Kiyoomi smacks those shameless, wandering hands away. “Are you okay?” he asks Komori who just holds his forehead and mutters curses. 

His cousin just waves them off. “Don’t mind me! I’ll just—” and zeroes in on the entry/exit with concentrated zeal. The curtains fly in his departure. 

Kiyoomi sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Fuck, he looks so good—the horns make him even hotter. Their impromptu makeout session has Atsumu swaying in an amorous daze. The stainless steel table is _literally_ calling his name. Loudly. _Moaning_ it. 

His husband turns to him with a dead look in his eyes. WIthout a second to spare, his fingers wrap around the collar again, bringing their bodies flush, searing their half-hard erections together. 

“This is how tonight’s going to go,” he tells him in a hot whisper and a swivel of his hips. “I’m going to give Kita-san his beer. We’re going to talk and I’ll get to know him.” His other hand grabs a fistful of _ass_ as he grinds down harder. Atsumu chokes on a moan—and the fucking _choker—_ "I’ll show you how much of an idiot you’re being.” 

“I _need_ —what about—” Atsumu pointedly glances down at their joined hips.

Kiyoomi shuts him up with another kiss and a tighter grip on his neck. He pulls away to nuzzle his cheek. He whispers in his ear, “you’re not getting off unless it’s me— _hah—_ or Kita-san getting you off.” 

Atsumu nearly jizzes on the spot. He’s no doubt as hard as a rock—anyone can come in right now and find him humping Kiyoomi’s thigh like a chihuahua. He really _is_ a puppy.

He gulps the sizzling air surrounding their bodies. It doesn’t make him any less breathless. “Yer… yer sure?” 

“Positive,” Kiyoomi confirms and separates with with a parting peck on his cheek and a squeeze of his _other_ cheek. “I mean it. No getting off.” 

“No getting off,” Atsumu repeats and shuts his eyes to will away his erection _and_ his stupid, beautiful husband. Kiyoomi’s going to kill him. _He’s_ going to kill him. Atsumu really wishes he bought that marital mystery book. 

Kiyoomi slinks away after pulling two fresh beers from the cooler under the counter. A smirk over his shoulder.

 _He really is the devil_ , Atsumu thinks as he stares at the tent in his shorts and desperately tries to catch his breath. 

Tonight is going to be a long night.

-

It takes a solid fifteen minutes of thinking about Kiyoomi’s toenails and holding an ice cold beer to his junk to finally feel soft enough for the present social circumstances. Seriously. Kiyoomi is an asshole.

But. 

He’s doing this for him, so he can’t really conjure up enough bitterness about the whole ordeal. Yeah, he’s still a horny mess, but he’s a _lucky_ horny mess. 

If someone asked Atsumu eleven years ago—seventeen and an _even_ hornier mess—that he’d be married to that sexy loner from camp and said sexy loner would love him enough to play matchmaker between Kita-san and him… well. That Atsumu probably wouldn’t exist today. He would’ve combusted on the spot. 

When he re-enters the dining area, it’s hotter than before, sexual tension notwithstanding. There’s more unfamiliar faces in the crowd, no doubt from Samu’s amateur co-ed league or from his circle of pop-up chefs. Whatever. Atsumu’s eyes, so distinctly attuned to their partnered equal, finds a messy black mop at one of the booths, sans Suna and Samu and engaged in a rather _boring_ looking conversation with Kita. Both of them have faces that don’t really betray… _anything._

Another glance finds his brother by the bathroom, Suna patting in between Samu’s slumped shoulder blades as he talks to Barnes—the hardest two and some meters to miss in all his lumberjack glory. 

He tries to glance back at Kita and Kiyoomi when, suddenly, Aran grabs his arm. “Dance with us!” he shouts over Suna’s electronic playlist booming through his fancy speaker. He missed his calling as a DJ, Atsumu muses as he downs the rest of his beer and nudges against whoever's behind him (Satoh?) playfully. It’s a good beat, he can't help it. Someone smacks his ass.

He leans into Aran’s space—nods to his costume in appreciation. Aran’s pilot uniform looks straight from an ANA in-flight magazine. “Where’s yer little bro at? I thought he was comin’.” 

"And subject 'im to this?" Aran gives him a pointed once-over.

“Fair point," Atsumu chuckles. "But ya helped Kita-san pick his costume, ya?” he asks when he remembers.

Aran takes a sip from his beer and _giggles_. “Ya. Shin looks good, eh?” 

Aran’s girl, Anisa— a half-Indonesian graphic designer with dyed lilac hair in a tight topknot to go with her flight attendant’s uniform—nudges her way into the conversation with a nod in Kiyoomi and Kita’s direction. “You mean your old captain? Shinsuke-san?” She whistles. 

“Right?” Aran laughs. “Didn’t have no objections to goin’ buff either. Just told me that’s what he had to wear.”

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

“I want a shot,” Atsumu announces.

Anisa chuckles behind white gloves holding her own beer. “Give ‘im yer flask, Aran. Looks like he needs it.” 

Begrudgingly, Aran hands Atsumu his black leather flask from his pocket and throws a betrayed glare at Anisa. _Whisky?_ The last time he had whisky straight was when he drunkenly sucked Kiyoomi’s dick for the first time. He hisses after he guzzles it down.

Speaking of… 

“I gotta go check on my hubby,” he excuses himself and hands Aran back his flask. He gives Anisa a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, babe, yer the _best.”_

Aran scowls. “And _me,_ doofus?!” 

Atsumu’s chuckles and grabs Aran’s head to plant a fat one just close enough to his lips to be a jerk—Aran is straighter than the pole jammed up his ass. “Thanks. _For ever’thin._ Ya bet yer ass yer gettin’ all the tosses next game! _”_

He leaves the sputtering and boisterous laughter to slide his way to Kiyoomi. 

The first thing he notices on his approach is his husband’s legs widening ever so slightly. Like in a _this spot is taken_ manspread kind of way. Then he notices is the imperceptible shift of Kita’s body, angling towards Atsumu. 

_Well. Okay, then._

He grins, wide enough to feel the stretch in his cheeks and the squint of his eyes. He doesn’t want to pop another boner thinking about how well Kiyoomi and Kita look, contrasting each other like they belong together. Like yin and yang. Or yang and yang. 

“How’s it goin’ over here?” he asks as he slides in the booth next to Kita. He catches Kiyoomi’s eyes as he sips his beer, watching them both carefully. Atsumu turns to Kita and projects his voice over the loud music, “were ya two talkin’ shit about me?” 

Kiyoomi snorts in his periphery. Kita’s lips quirk. “Nothin’ of the sort. Yer husband was just indulging me.”

He dislikes that sentence, almost as much as he dislikes the fact that Kita and Kiyoomi exchange a look, like they’re enjoying a secret that he isn’t privy to. He hated playing this game with Samu and Rin— _oh it’s five o clock? Guess it’s time to ditch Atsumu!_

For once, Kiyoomi is not an asshole. _Technically_. He explains in a bored voice, “we were talking about minnowing. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” 

Atsumu smirks. “Who said I'm wearin’ panties?” Maybe it’s the whisky he just downed, but that comment did _not_ mean to escape his unfiltered mouth. Before he settles into a panic or gets lost on the bunny trail wondering what the fuck _minnowing_ is, he asks Kita in a rush, “hey how did that meetin’ with the boraculturist go?” 

Kita plays with the label of his beer, dark eyes lit like tealights in their dark corner of the restaurant. “The _horti_ culturist ya mean?” he asks, clearly taking pleasure in watching how flustered Atsumu becomes at his correction. “It went well, actually. I’m interested in pomology and floriculture, so I was quite satisfied with what I learned.” Another curled lip. “Thanks fer askin’.”

“Ah,” Atsumu remarks, breezily. “No problem.”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Kiyoomi sighs. “Growing fruit, growing flowers. Keep up, Atsumu.” 

He kicks his shoe under the table and smiles sweetly at Kiyoomi’s face twitch when it connects with a shin. Stupid Kiyoomi. Stupid biology. Stupid Murata-san and his recommended gen-ed courses—the ones that didn’t teach him what the word for _growing fruit_ was. 

Atsumu’s smug smile vanishes the second his eyes meet his husband’s. There’s a very distinct _hm_ heard over the sound of the bass as Kiyoomi purses his lips and brings a finger to tap his chin in thought. That’s never a good sign.

Kiyoomi blinks and says, “wait, did this happen after your coffee date? How was that by the way?” 

Beside him, Kita tenses. The air gets noticeably thicker as the silence stretches on. Kiyoomi looks _extremely_ satisfied with the response. Atsumu tries to steal a sneaky look at Kita to gauge the reaction— _yep!_ Definitely embarrassed. 

Kita gently clears his throat and leans forward. “We met up in Port Town and had some good coffee. I’ve actually taken to stopping there before I head to my meetings with Matsuyama-sensei—the horticulturist professor I talk with.” 

If Atsumu didn’t know better, Kita’s posture and voice almost sounds... _defensive_. He’s trying to change the topic or at least distance himself from it. One glance at Kiyoomi and they’re both in nonverbal agreement: _he didn’t deny it._

He takes back what he said about Kiyoomi not being an asshole. The guy came out of the _womb_ dripping assholery and amniotic fluids. He leans forward after taking a swig of his beer. “So you told him everything, right Atsumu?” 

_“What!”_ he shrieks.

His thigh bursts into flames when Kita leans back—brushing up against his skin with the denim of his overalls. He wants to die when Kita hums thoughtfully. “Everything, huh?”

Kiyoomi smirks. “He came home after your reunion looking like a lovesick puppy,” like _that’s_ an explanation.

“Ya don’t hold back, I see,” Kita observes.

Atsumu knows Kiyoomi’s a little drunk, but even then, the smile that graces his lips as he looks at Kita is sober, _magnetizing_ even. That’s all Kiyoomi—subtly brilliant smiles and enough brazen courage to take on a pride of lions. He hates that he loves him.

“Kiyoomi don’t like wastin’ breath beatin’ around the bush,” Atsumu explains sullenly as he leans closer to Kita. 

Kita doesn’t back away from the proximity. “How admirable,” he remarks.

Completely oblivious to the obvious electricity coursing through the air, Samu stumbles over holding two large plates of bite-sized onigiri. He shakily sets one down on their table after overestimating his depth perception. “Made a fresh batch. ‘S on the house. Enjoy!” he says this with a drunken curtsy. The fuck? 

“Thank ya, Osamu-kun, this looks delicious,” Kita says but doesn't touch it. 

Atsumu frowns at the plate of drunken lumps. It’s impossible to talk to Samu when he’s drunk and trying to play host so he won’t even try to make fun of him. He’ll just give him shit for it tomorrow. 

Samu beams at the compliment. He turns to the next table, making conversation with the EJP guys, like it’s no big deal to be at the end of Kita’s praise. Atsumu knows his brother had his own ordeal about Kita their first year, but in the quiet of their bedroom, Samu confided that it was more like an awakening to things he never felt before—the fog of perceived heterosexuality clouding his vision had cleared with Kita’s objective beauty, but instead he zeroed in on Suna, the new guy with the bland accent. 

Atsumu takes two rice balls that look like whales and stuffs them in his mouth as Kiyoomi watches in disdain.

He turns back to Kita. “I suggested Atsumu tell you about his feelings since he was agonizing about how he didn’t in high school,” he continues and reaches to take another swig of his beer, pauses before it touches his lips. “What was that slogan your school had? We’re not looking back?”

“We don’t need memories,” Atsumu and Kita intone together. Atsumu, exasperated. Kita, amused. 

Kiyoomi snaps his fingers to make his point. “That’s the one.”

Atsumu huffs and grabs another rice ball. “ _Ya jewk,”_ he mutters through his chewing. “I’ve towldja this a _thousa—”_

Kiyoomi interrupts him with a nudge under the table. “Speak after you finish chewing, pig.” 

Kita holds up a hand. “If I may, Miya-kun—” 

“Just Kiyoomi is fine,” his husband corrects quickly, almost straightening in attention.

Kita pauses and says, “ _Kiyoomi-kun_. I believe Atsumu-kun responds better to positive reinforcement. At least, in my own experience.” His fingers brush up against his arm as he turns slightly, bangs swaying against his tan forehead. The fingers barely settle against his skin, almost hovering over the hairs of his arm. “How about ya two enjoy a dance after ya finish that onigiri. We can finish catchin’ up later.” 

It’s a strong cocktail that tastes like excitement, disappointment and dismissal all in one. Atsumu swallows it greedily alongside the moist rice. “S-sure,” he agrees when he trusts his voice to get the word out. 

Kita removes his hand.

It’s a good song playing, with a strong, easy beat to sway to. Or grind to. Feeling drunk, he stands and offers his hand to Kiyoomi. “Can I have this dance?”

Kiyoomi purses his lips and turns to Kita. With a slight nod of approval, he takes Atsumu’s hand. 

When they settle into a spot in the small crowd, Kiyoomi gives him a light tug so his clammy hands can claim bare hips. Atsumu almost wants to push him away for treating him like a baby in front of Kita, but as the thought enters his brain, Kiyoomi’s fingers start brushing up and down his spine just beneath his harness. Little tingles of charged pleasure erupting like stars across his skin. He shivers. 

“Sorry,” is all Kiyoomi says. 

Atsumu decides to forgive him. He’s a sucker for a good tickle. He presses closer to Kiyoomi, wrapping his arms around his long neck and playing with the damp curls at his nape. They sway to the music, hot breaths in each others’ ears, stroking the slowly building arousal still settled in his abdomen.

"Make it up to me," he responds in an inviting whisper. 

It’s rare, but when they _do_ dance, it’s always fireworks. They’ve had five years to tune their bodies like instruments that only the other has learned to play. Five years of being wine drunk and putting on swing records and tango and laughing until their sides hurt. 

He wraps a finger around a curl and gives a playful pull as Kiyoomi’s thumb rubs his hip bone and his nose nudges the cartilage of his ear. Atsumu lets out a weak moan as he presses their bodies closer. It's a cheap trick; Kiyoomi knows how sensitive his ears are.

Like tuned instruments, Atsumu’s hips begin to move to their rhythm. One good shimmy tells him all that he needs to know. 

“Is that yer tail or are ya just happy to see me?” he wonders aloud with a grin. 

Beside them, Shion chokes on his cocktail. “Not _again_ ,” he mutters to Adriah who pats him on the back and laughs. 

Kiyoomi ignores them in favor of rewarding Atsumu with another devilish smirk. His grip gets tougher. “Why don’t you come and find out?” 

_“Jesus Christ,”_ Adriah swears in English, over his own spilled drink.

They kiss, briefly—enough to ignite the kindling piling up in Atsumu’s belly. Kiyoomi’s lips taste like Sapporo and he’s almost drunk so it feels good to indulge in a little more. He leans in for a second one, but _misses_ entirely when Kiyoomi goes straight for his ear. 

“He’s watching us,” he whispers roughly. Abruptly, he flips their positions so Atsumu’s flimsy wings press up against his chest. He mouths around the back of his ear, “why don’t you give him a _show?”_

Fuck. 

“Omi,” he whimpers. 

“Invite him over,” Kiyoomi urges. A pause and a shaky exhale. “Remember Okinawa?” 

As if he could forget. In the midst of a new friendship (with _one drunken benefit)_ and an even newer crush on then-Sakusa, Atsumu had tried his damned near _hardest_ to entice him onto the dance floor during one of the nights they went out for their beach training camp, courtesy of Shouyou’s beach connects. He still doesn’t know what propelled him to grab the hottest piece of ass on the dancefloor, which he then proceeded to hump and _twerk_ on while he locked gazes with Kiyoomi. All he knows is that a switch had flipped for both of them—Atsumu fulfilled his fantasies of performing for an audience and Kiyoomi realized he wanted to be the one touching Atsumu instead. They had their first good orgasms with each other that night. 

It was something they nervously reflected on in their first year together; knee-slapping laughter in their third. Now, Atsumu’s dick gives a twitch as he recalls the feeling of Kiyoomi’s dark eyes watching him as some guy’s dick poked his back. 

There was something addicting about that stage of infatuation—the constant searching when he entered a room. The stuttered breathing and the excitement of a first kiss. When his fingertips found the parts of his skin that made him _cry._

Atsumu knows the thrill of victory. He exhales and looks up. 

Just as Kiyoomi had said, Kita’s eyes are trained on them but return quickly to his conversation partners. Aran and Anisa are there, gesturing and laughing, but every now and then his eyes flick back over to their position.

Their eyes meet and it’s Okinawa. 

The lights are low and colorful. People are busy drinking and talking and dancing. Bokuto is kissing Akaashi’s cheeks like a _zillion_ times in his periphery. No one will notice them.

Atsumu grabs the hands resting on his waist, and drags them up and down his sides. Slowly, he makes sure they get lower on his thighs each time before they trail back up—higher. A thumb flicks his nipple and he rubs his crack against Kiyoomi in gratitude. He gets a groan in response, feels him get harder in his slacks. He still doesn’t look away from Kita. 

In fact, he has the audacity to give his lips a bite as he arranges one of Kiyoomi’s hands over the front of his shorts. Both of them squeeze at the same time. 

_This could be yours._

He gives Kita an inviting smile and a jerk of his head. 

_This could be yours._

Reluctantly, but _assuredly_ , Kita excuses himself from the discussion and slides out of the booth. Atsumu’s jaw slackens in surprise and his breath threatens to burst out of his chest, getting stuck in his throat on it’s way out. Kiyoomi’s hands wander on their own accord, without Atsumu’s confidence to lead them.

_No way._

The air around his ear blazes where Kiyoomi huffs a chuckle. His deep voice taunts, “do you get it now?” 

Kita hesitates on his approach, but nevertheless stands a polite distance in front of Atsumu. His words don’t waiver when he asks, “you needed me?” 

_I’ve needed you since I was sixteen,_ Atsumu thinks.

“Dance with us,” Atsumu says instead. He extends a hand, tries not to focus on the irony of that being the hand that gripped Kiyoomi’s hand. That gripped his dick. 

It’s sweaty, but Kita takes it. It’s a lesson in complete contradiction; gently, firmly. Strong and fragile. Calloused, yet soft. Beautiful, but deadly. It’s electricity and strangely grounding and Atsumu _needs more—_ has never wanted less. He pulls him closer. 

“Wrap your arms around his neck,” Kiyoomi instructs, loud enough for the both of them to hear. 

Atsumu blushes and searches Kita’s darkened face for confirmation. A nod. 

His arms settle hesitantly on strong shoulders. There isn’t too much of a height difference between the two of them, but Atsumu has to lean over slightly to tell him, “ya smell good.” 

Kita chuckles and settles his hands above Kiyoomi’s on his waist, nice and chaste. “I think,” he says and brings their bodies closer together. “I should be tellin’ ya that.” 

There’s a little voice in his head—it sounds suspiciously like Kiyoomi—telling him that’s an absolute fucking lie. He’s sweating gallons now, his heart threatening to take off at the speed of light, pumping blood quicker than it can cycle through his system. It oozes out of his pores; firing in all directions, confused as to where to let itself settle.

The cheeks are a good place to start, he notes as Kita starts moving his body. It’s magnetic to watch, to _feel._ His body in his hands crushing all expectations Atsumu’s held in his head for so long. It’s been years of standing on the sidelines, off the court, _waiting._

"Thanks fer comin' out tonight," he whispers to Kita like a secret. 

Kita licks his lips, just a tiny flick of tongue. It shouldn't mean anything, but it means _everything_ to Atsumu. "Thanks fer invitin' me. I'm... happy ya did."

Each sway, each bump gets him closer to Kita until they’re sharing the air between them. He might have two pairs of hands on his body, but the only thing he feels is Kita’s stare through his lashes. His hand trails up and down his neck, surprised when he sees Kita’s mouth fall open to accommodate a tiny exhale.

“It’s late,” Kiyoomi remarks as he plants a kiss on his neck. He asks Kita, “are you heading back to Hyogo tonight?” 

“No,” Kita responds. His hold on Atsumu tightens noticeably. They both refuse to waiver in their gaze.

Kiyoomi kisses his neck again. “Want to come home with us?” 

-

They duck out when someone, probably Samu (the old geezer), pulls out the karaoke machine. The party starts to teeter on rowdy, so no one notices when he throws his white duster on and helps Kita into his jacket while Kiyoomi flags down a taxi on the main drag. 

Because he’s taken another shot for the road, he dons Kita’s straw hat playfully and leers over the rim of his hat. “Last chance to back out,” he warns. 

Kita raises a brow. _I’ll see this through,_ Atsumu can almost hear him say. 

They watch the lights of Neyagawa pass them by in the comfort of their taxi. Atsumu feels the heat of Kita’s thighs and Kiyoomi’s arm braced against the back of his seat. He’s buzzed, and _burning_ in his skin. All the atoms in his body tingle in excitement _._ What’s going to happen now? 

Atsumu still can’t believe Kita said _yes._

His hands lay on his lap, but one moves on its own accord until his pinky touches Kita’s. Atsumu’s breath comes quicker. Kiyoomi’s fingers card through his hair, soothing. He goes for it.

He stares at their hands as he nudges his own under Kita’s. It’s a warm weight that should be grounding, but this time it’s _searing,_ flickering flames licking up his forearms, across his chest and down to his groin. Kita’s fingers tickle his palm in featherlight circles, not dropping into Atsumu’s expectant, upturned hand. On a bump in the road, he caresses his exposed thigh. 

Kiyoomi’s fingers tighten in his hair as he watches. His soft breath against Atsumu’s ear is an indicator of his own excitement. 

Once Kiyoomi pays the driver, they all stumble up the steps of their home and Atsumu let’s Kiyoomi go ahead to key in the door code. He can’t stop playing with Kita’s fingers now that he’s gotten the permission to do so. 

They tear off their shoes in the genkan. They all hold their breaths when their coats come off.

Now that Kita’s here, he looks nervous, his eyes darting down the hall to take in the dark house—the purple light above Kiyoomi’s herbs growing in their kitchen windowsill illuminating his uncertain features. The apprehension in the air is palpable and Atsumu grows restless with it. 

Kiyoomi clears his throat. “You should kiss him,” he tells Kita. “He’s been wanting you to all night.”

“Oh,” Kita says.

His senses feel heightened. The sound of shifting of denim as Kita moves, the smell of lemongrass and two bottles of Sapporo assaulting his nostrils. The earth under his fingernails as Kita cups his jaw and the sweet tanginess of his sweat Atsumu can almost _taste_ when he leans in.

Atsumu lets go with all the might of ten years of holding back. He crushes their lips together, savors the small moan from Kita and swallows it whole as he licks his way inside, an arm winding around his back and another holding Kita’s jaw as he tries to lap every inch of him. Kiyoomi unclips his wings. There’s a joke in there somewhere. He’s falling. 

Kita leans back against the wall and blinks. 

Atsumu says frantically, fevered and crazed, “I like ya. _Still._ Never stopped.” 

Kiyoomi hands Kita a pair of clean slippers. “Would you like to join us?” he asks.

After a moment of heady deliberation, Kita gets the same steely look in his eye that Atsumu’s come to fear. Like they’re in a group huddle planning out their next play or he’s about to make contact with a nasty serve. Only this time, a smile graces his face, and the rigidity of the steel softens into the flames that form it. 

It’s not wrath. Not admonishment.

_Passion._

Three hearts beat in tempo like a sync attack. 

Kita says, _“show me.”_

-

  
  


It’s like any other day in Miya Atsumu’s life. In his house overlooking the botanical gardens of Osaka City University, on the border of Hirakata and Katano. In the long shadows of three candles and the shifting autumn breeze, his husband lays him down on the bed and circles his hole with his lubed index finger.

He remarks out loud, “Atsumu likes to be teased. If he’s quiet, you’re not doing it right.” 

Atsumu wheezes through the stretch. His breath is barely escaping his lungs as Kiyoomi settles that one, long digit inside of him. It’s like any other inconsequential day of Miya Atsumu’s life. He’s about to get fucked by his husband of two years. 

Only, now, someone’s watching. 

Kiyoomi has a reading chair in the corner of their bedroom, by the floor to ceiling windows where he likes to read at night. An ugly looking purple, velvet thing that Atsumu’s not allowed to sit on since his husband caught him eating on it in their old apartment _once._ Most of the time, he thinks it looks like an eyesore since their bedroom is mostly made up of white furniture and walnut wood accents. 

It looks a lot better with Kita sitting in it. Like a painting. He wears nothing but a pair of gray boxers and leans forward on his elbows, rests one finger to his lip as he watches Atsumu get fingered like it’s a nature documentary. He’s naked in his harness, _withering_ under that hot gaze like he’s looking straight at the sun. He wants to _scream_. 

Kita observes with all the emotion of a statue, “he seems pretty quiet right now.” 

Suddenly, Kiyoomi nudges his middle finger in next to his pointer. Atsumu lets a groan tumble out of his mouth. “O-Omi—” 

A _smack_. “Manners.” To Kita he explains like a smug peacock, “positive reinforcement doesn’t work in the bedroom.” 

“Oh,” Kita responds and leans back in the chair. He crosses his legs and Atsumu cranes his neck from where he’s settled face first against the pillow. Is Kita as turned on as he is right now? “Please continue,” he adds. 

He is going to _die_. He burrows deeper into the pillow to hide the crimson tinting his face.

When Kiyoomi adds his third finger Atsumu can barely even hear their back and forth about his preferences like he’s Kiyoomi’s pet that Kita will be looking after while he’s out of town on business. His cock is sobbing with undeniable arousal and it’s hanging heavy between his legs. If he could just— 

He starts pushing back on Kiyoomi’s fingers, clenching to tell him to _hurry the hell up_. 

Another _slap_. “Did I tell you to move?” 

Atsumu bites the pillow to hold off another loud moan. If anything the moan only sounds louder in the resounding silence. _Again_ , he hopes hopelessly.

For the second time tonight, (or this morning? What is _time?)_ Kiyoomi decides not to be an asshole. He nudges his knees apart and starts plunging in with gusto, knocking Atsumu’s heart right out of his chest with the force of his wrist. He drives into him searching for lost gold and maybe a quick orgasm. Atsumu lets his wanton sobs tumble out unabashed as he focuses on the pleasure tickling up his spine. 

A movement in his periphery. He almost forgot Kita was there. He scrambles to find purchase on the bed. A wrinkle, _anything,_ on their perfectly taut duvet, to save him from looking like a complete wreck in front of Kita _._

“He looks like he’s in pain,” Kita comments like it’s raining outside and he just noticed. 

_Yes,_ Atsumu wants to answer, _I_ am _in pain. I'm actually_ dying _. Here lies Atsumu. He died a tragic death, killed by his husband’s fingers up his asshole while his high school volleyball captain watched._

Fuck. It doesn’t even sound real.

Kiyoomi pulls out and wipes his dirty fingers on Atsumu’s thigh. With the tell-tale foil package being torn open, Atsumu has exactly seven seconds to think clearly before he departs this Earth. He looks up to Kita who’s still watching him with an amused look on his face. Smug, looking down at him while he’s drooling onto his pillow. 

That’s when Atsumu see it—the tent in his boxers. It’s enough of a length for Atsumu’s mouth dry up like he stuffed as many cotton balls in there as he could. He swallows around hot air and licks his lips. 

Kita calmly watches his reaction before crossing his legs again and leaning on a hand. He smiles. 

Kiyoomi slaps his latexed cock against his hole to get the blood pumping before slowly sliding with the heat of ten thousand fires. His skin tingles where his hands are squeezing on his hips and he chokes on a broken cry ripped from the center of his being as Kiyoomi sinks his whole length in at once. 

He reaches behind him to clutch at the back of Kiyoomi’s thigh. He needs to hold onto something and the bed is slippery. Another deep thrust and he falls back onto his face. This time he finds the corner of the mattress and holds on for dear life. 

Maybe it’s knowing that someone is watching him scramble around like a wild animal, but Atsumu’s voice gets hoarse with the constant moaning and the _“ah’s”_ as they trip out. He can’t stop them, even through his clenched teeth. It just feels _so_...

“Doesn’t sound so quiet now, hm?” Kiyoomi questions as he hits his prostate on a completely calculated drive of his hips. It slaps against his balls with the force of it and he screams out in pleasure. He bites down on the pillow so he can _shut the fuck up_. 

Kita hums. His finger plays with his bottom lip. “No, not at—” 

_“O-Omi, more,”_ he weakly whines. How the hell can they keep up their conversation like this?

 _Smack_. “Don’t interrupt Kita-san.” 

He buries his face back into his pillow right as Kita says, “I don’t mind. I like hearing him.” Atsumu preens at the praise.

Kiyoomi keeps his snail pace, to Atsumu’s displeasure. He’s almost lazy with his movements, long cock kept warm in the heat of Atsumu’s body as he just sinks in marginally, barely pulling out. 

“You liked that, huh?” he asks Atsumu. A frantic nod and he gets a yummy ram in approval. Kiyoomi tells Kita, “he usually can’t stop talking. But that doesn’t seem to be a problem with you here watching him.” 

Another precise thrust. He feels a spurt of liquid on his stomach where his cock is rubbed up against the mattress. 

“Atsumu.” 

He looks up. It takes all his effort since the drag he’s got going is almost too good to ignore. 

Kita searches his face carefully. Flicks up to Kiyoomi briefly and then back down to Atsumu’s crying face. “Would ya like me to touch you?” 

He burrows back into the pillow. He’s about to come. Come on his _face_. He _wants_ come on his face. Preferably Kita’s. 

Without pulling out, Kiyoomi grabs the back of his collar and gives it a sharp tug until he’s flush against his back. He chokes with the force of it, sputtering tears as he reaches to grab Kiyoomi. He has to move, _dammit._

Kiyoomi doesn’t. “He asked you a question.” 

“ _Atsumu_.” 

“No, nononono,” he babbles incoherently. “Gon'—I’ll _come. K-Kita-san._ Le' _me.”_

Atsumu’s eyes stay closed. He doesn’t see what nonverbal exchange happens between Kiyoomi and Kita but the mattress dips with extra weight. 

Kita’s tips his chin with an index finger. “Atsumu.” He blinks back into reality right as Kita asks, “Can I kiss ya?”

Ah fuck. Oh _fuck._ He jerks his head so fast he sees stars. 

This time Kita takes the initiative, the surprise of Atsumu’s furiosity having worn off. He’s all gentle touches and thumbs brushing away tears. It’s nothing like Kiyoomi’s strong grip and chin biting. Kita kisses Atsumu like he’s got all the time in the world. Maybe they do; what is time, if not the awareness of it? Atsumu left that state of mind in the taxi. His ignorance is pure bliss as he gets tangled in Kita’s soft hair. Years or seconds flicker by as Kita's fingers brush up and down his arms, featherlight. He feels rather than hears the sigh around his tongue when he gets a hand on Kita's chest to play with a rosy nipple.

Having gotten sick of being ignored, Kiyoomi growls as he starts moving again, considerately slow enough to let them keep on drinking each other _up._

But it’s too much. He’s already _so_ _close._

Atsumu pulls off and holds onto Kita hair as he starts moving with Kiyoomi. “Let me s-suck ya off, Kita-san. _Please.”_

Kiyoomi grinds into him quicker. He moans and his head drops onto Kita's breastbone. He latches onto the thin skin there. _“Please,”_ he repeats in a murmur against the scar. He gives it a wet kiss. He licks his collarbones too, for good measure. The little tan line there tastes like heaven.

He’s about to lap at his pecks when Kita’s fingers graze his sweaty abs. He freezes. They travel lower, until he forms a loose fist around Atsumu’s slick cock and gives it a clumsy jerk. Atsumu whimpers and holds onto his shoulders, mouthing the skin nearest to him in reverence.

“Maybe next time,” Kita says against Atsumu’s hair, corrects his angle, and starts jerking Atsumu off. 

A promise. 

“Faster,” Kiyoomi demands roughly. " _Gods_ , you feel so good, Tsumu," he praises and starts plowing into him with unrestrained intensity, lifting him higher and higher until he crescendos. Kita’s grip tightens and follows his rhythm, tugging the foreskin of his cock up and down with rough pulls. 

Feeling this high, it’s easy to get afraid of heights. He’s been teased all night into this orgasm—higher than Everest and deeper than the Marina Trench. It feels like falling, and there might be a joke in there somewhere but he can’t hear it over the sounds of his own crying. At this point, he's scared of what's going to happen when he lets go. It mounts and mounts in his belly and in his balls, against his pulse underneath Kiyoomi's hand and in his lips where they move against Kita's skin in sobs. He wants to stay here forever.

Kiyoomi kisses his neck and licks his ear. Kita's lips in his hair. “Come for us, Tsumu,” one of them says. 

And he does. It punches him in the gut as he releases into Kita’s hand, hitting his chin with the force of it. 

It’s the last memory he has before everything goes black behind his eyelids.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone for the kudos, bookmarks and comments! it makes me so glad to see y'all enjoying it as much as i am writing it! thanks for joining me on this fuckin wild ride. we in endgame now !
> 
>   
> [tweet tweet](https://mobile.twitter.com/dindie__)
> 
> [my inspo playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ATVKQAgObmFJgDMsqZpJW?si=WAhMVXrfRMepsTum-bSAeA)


	6. the morning of our lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of vomit, poop & other bodily excretions. oop

Atsumu startles awake with a jolt, springing up in bed. 

And decides, _holy fuck shit no_ , as he plops back down onto his pillow with a groan. His head pounds like someone knocking at the door, rudely assaulting the home in his brain with a pulsing pain that doesn’t _stop_. His ass _hurts_. Like the motherfucker just broke in, stole Kiyoomi’s plants and whatever shit _died in his rectum._

_Omi_ , he tries calling out, but it comes out like, “ _O—_ ugh _—meeee...”_

Admittedly, twenty-eight doesn’t feel too hot so far. 

How drunk was he? A mental recount in his head reveals a low shot count, but his negligence of consistency, no doubt, is the reason for the rolling waves of nausea in his sloshing stomach. There was the two tequilas with Samu and Kiyoomi, Aran’s whisky, a shot of vodka with Barnes before he left, a few sips of Washio’s highball when he went to the bathroom and the two beers he cleared by himself in the kitchen as he waited for his erection to flag. 

Then, suddenly he remembers. 

He knows better than to startle, but it hits him faster than the thirteen minute shinkansen ride from Shin-Osaka to Shin-Kobe. 

_Atsumu._

_Can I kiss ya?_

_Next time._

Thankfully, the curtains are drawn when he finally builds up the courage to open up his eyes. He rolls onto his side and spots his favorite glass filled with water, two tablets of acetaminophen sitting patiently next to it. Sitting up slightly, he downs all of it greedily, spilling most of the water on his bare chest. He exhales, smells his breath and winces, but still doesn’t make a move to get up to rejoin the living.

He hears the front door open and close, shoes being meticulously lined up and a plastic bag being set on the kitchen island. Gloves being _snapped_ off flexible wrists and the five minute wipedown of grocery ingredients. What time is it? He throws an arm over his eyes and groans. 

Silent footfalls and then the mattress dipping slightly. “Atsumu,” a hushed voice calls to him. 

_Atsumu._

_Can I kiss ya?_

“Did last night really happen?” he asks God. 

Kiyoomi rubs his blanketed legs in soothing up and down motions. “Did you spill all your water?” 

Atsumu croaks out a laugh and drops his arm onto his moist chest. Kiyoomi watches him carefully, probably trying to gauge his emotional state. And yeah, now that he remembers, he totally blacked out after orgasming all over himself and Kita. His ears burn in shame. 

“What happened?” he asks, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s not sure he wants to know. 

The hand stops. “You don’t remember?” Atsumu shakes his head and Kiyoomi looks unsettled. “What don’t you remember?” 

“I remember comin’,” he tries to joke hoarsely.

“Which time?” Kiyoomi asks seriously. 

_Which time?!_

“I came more than _once?!_ What the fuck!” he wails, ignoring the _thump thump_ of his heart _and_ his brain. 

Kiyoomi resumes his gentle patting. “It happened pretty quickly after your first. I was… shocked. Shinsuke-san was, as well. You told him to keep going until I finished but I think you scared him. You passed out immediately after. He slept in the guest room. I showed him the scrapbook.” 

_The shrine._ He can just imagine Kiyoomi in his silk robe leading a still-hard Kita down the hall, showing him the scrapbook full of Kiyoomi’s stalker clippings of a shirtless Atsumu and handing it to him with a smirk. _Spank material_ , he imagines him saying in his head, even though Kiyoomi’s not that crude. 

But he _is_ cruel. 

“I wanna die,” he announces.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi agrees, still patting his legs. “But not on the bed. I still need to change the sheets.” 

Atsumu kicks him. 

All of the build up, all of the tension, and he _doesn’t even remember all of it_. He’s never drinking again. It’s decided. Twenty-eight is the year of sobriety. Well, maybe their glasses of wine can be the exception since those don’t really count. Plus, he’d miss their couch cuddles too much.

“Wait,” he squawks, when the shock settles in a retreating tide and makes way for the next wave. “ _Sh-Shinsuke-san?”_

Kiyoomi’s lip curls in amusement. “He asked when I drove him to the station this morning.” 

Atsumu stares. And stares. He’s not joking, is he? 

“Kill me,” he decides. 

Kiyoomi is the devil, he’s sure. He gives one last pat before he stands and wrangles the blanket off of him to bundle it in his arms. “After your shower. You stink.” 

“Fuck ya,” he mumbles as he curls into a ball. “I’ll take my shit on the sheets.”

“I got your green juice ingredients.” 

Atsumu perks up. “Can ya start the water?” 

Once he’s dried off, taken his day-after-drinking shit, and feeling more like a human in his still-vibrating skin, he begins to prepare the ingredients that Kiyoomi has bought for his hangover cure as his husband pays their bills on his laptop at the counter. He wears his cute little readers, the ones he wears for blue light since he’s deathly afraid of losing his eyesight. Atsumu wants to ask him to put them on play Professor Kiyoomi one of these days, but he's got more important things on his mind.

Peeling a kiwi, he tries to nonchalantly ask, “so... what did ya two talk about on the ride to the station?” 

“Nothing. I was tired and he was on the phone for most of the ride,” he responds without looking up. “Did you go over your data this month?” 

Atsumu sighs and grabs a bundle of kale to chop. “Maybe? I don’t know.” 

“Use the gym wifi,” he scolds. 

He disposes the stems and starts adding them to the noisy juicer as a buffer for the conversation. He’ll use the gym wifi if he _wants ta’._ “Whatever,” he mutters. 

They continue silently, thoughts swirling around Atsumu’s head like insistent fruit flies. There’s so much he wants to ask, so many things he wants to do—and everything comes back to Kita. That addicting feeling? Adding to the Kita to the equation makes his stomach clench with want and the blood rise to his cheeks. He wants… 

“I’m thinkin’ about goin’ to Kobe this weekend,” he decides. 

Kiyoomi hums as his fingers fly over the laptop keys. “Haven’t you checked our calendar? I have that Adidas photoshoot in Tokyo this weekend. Okaasan won’t stop messaging me about spending time with you.” 

Atsumu’s stomach drops, if that’s possible with all the alcohol still shaking around in there. “Oh,” he replies. 

The _click-clack_ stops abruptly. He rushes to add the bundle of asparagus to the juicer. 

When the noise quiets, Kiyoomi asks, “Did you... not want to go?” 

“No, that’s not… I miss yer ‘kaasan. I was just—” 

“You just want to see Shinsuke-san,” Kiyoomi finishes. 

He fiddles with the peeled kiwi. The slimy exterior feels a lot like his heart right about now, about to burst, leaking juices all over the counter. Yeah he wanted to see Kita. If only to figure out _what the hell now?_

“Maybe,” he agrees and adds the fruit to the machine. 

Again, Kiyoomi waits until it finishes extracting the fluids. “Did you not want _me_ to go?” he asks in a familiar tone. The tone that begins and ends with a screaming match that used to scare their neighbors—when they had them, on the other side of the wall—into complaining to their landlord. 

One of Kiyoomi’s worse qualities was his anger. It’s always flickering in his sensitive heart like a candle, cupped by bitter hands to protect it from the winds of kindness. When he starts with shit like this, it’s like he can’t stop adding sticks and twigs to the fire like the pyromaniac he is. It’s all-consuming, and it leaves a floundering, flustered Atsumu to find the extinguisher.

He tries holding in a sigh. “That’s not it at _all._ Don’t put words in ma’ mouth.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. “Well then let’s start with the ones you just used,” Kiyoomi contends with a steadily rising voice and his glasses noisily being slapped on the counter behind him. “Why are you asking if you can go, instead of asking me if I want to?” 

Atsumu feeds the stalks of celery into the blades and tries to gather his thoughts. Of course he wants Kiyoomi to go. They do everything together: sleep, exercise, eat, practice, work, photoshoots… the list goes on. But right now…?

“I mean, I did want to see him,” he says to appease Kiyoomi’s growing ire. “I just wanted to see if he wanted to see me. I was also planning on getting my hair done _too,_ ya know.” 

Kiyoomi sighs and stands. Suddenly, he’s pacing right next to Atsumu, buzzing irritation simmering in his bones like the kettle he put on earlier for his tea. “Atsumu,” he begins, tone exasperated, “ _of course_ he wants to see you. I can't believe you're still acting like a mindless idiot! Were you just not planning on telling me?!” 

He needs to stay calm. In the face of Kiyoomi, he’s learned maintaining calm has always put an end to illogical arguments. He throws a bundle of spinach into the juicer. He watches the green liquid dribble down into the large mason jar. If he had an appetite before, it’s gone now. 

“You weren’t going to tell me _at all!”_ Kiyoomi accuses with a shout. He throws a hand in his hair and scratches his scalp, tossing his curls around like he does when he’s frustrated. His ‘kaasan once joked to Atsumu that when Kiyoomi starts scratching his head, he needs to book it in the opposite direction. Right now, her advice seems _very_ appealing. “You were just going to go anyway! You’re still planning to go, aren’t you?!” 

Suddenly _he’s_ annoyed. Of course he was going to tell Kiyoomi. Maybe after he went, but he would. Kiyoomi’s latching onto it like he didn’t agree to this shitshow. They’re adults— _he’s_ an adult and he can make his own decisions. Kiyoomi can do the same and he won’t pounce on him like _a fucking tiger._

He reaches for the ginger when Kiyoomi stops him with a violent grip on his wrist. His sharp features twist in barely-contained rage when Atsumu _finally_ finds the courage to look at him in the eyes. Black pools threaten to drown him within their inky depths. 

“I swear to fucking God,” Kiyoomi threatens in a snarl _,_ “if you turn that thing on again I’m _leaving.”_

Atsumu whips his hand away and says, “Don’t _bother_. I’m goin’ to Samu’s.” And does.

  
  


-

He gets off at Tenma station, thankfully less busy in the late morning of a Monday workday, which is still _really fucking loud_. He adjusts his sunglasses and the tote bag full of green juice jars as he walks through E2 and into the alley that leads him to the row of old buildings by Ura-Tenma where Onigiri Miya is. It’s basically muscle memory at this point, since he doesn’t really trust his brain—or heart—to make this journey consciously. 

He feels tired, the adrenaline from his spat with Kiyoomi no longer lingering in his fingers and twitching against his lips, but his chest still constricts painfully at the thought of Kiyoomi’s twisted frown, furious. Hurt, probably. Most likely.

Still, he can’t find it in himself to regret anything. He made vows, _wrote them_ , and to this day hasn’t broken a single one. On training days, he wakes up in the morning and makes him his black tea after his morning run, and in the evening after practice, he dons purple nitrile gloves and rubs their tube of salonpas on Kiyoomi’s aching shoulders. He laughs at his morbid jokes and buys him a plant when he’s thinking of him. Their shelves really can’t handle the weight of his thoughts anymore. 

Does Kiyoomi not understand that? 

It’s not a burden. He wants to do these things for him. He wants, period. Maybe too much. That’s always been his problem.

Their first big fight was in their second month of dating—he can’t even recall the details, just that Kiyoomi got pissy and didn’t talk to him for a week. What he _does_ remember is lying on his springy bed in his old Hirakata apartment, in the dead of night thinking, _I’m too much_. He was honestly prepared to be dumped, if Kiyoomi had bothered picking up his calls. 

_I’m too much._

He hasn’t had that thought in a while. 

Kiyoomi didn’t dump him. He said he needed things to move at a slower pace or something like that. Was it the hand holding incident at the presser or the hug when waiting for the Keihan Main line at the station? Or was it accidentally letting one rip on the couch? There were so many instances where they mixed like oil and water, he honestly can’t remember all of them. 

Regardless, Atsumu had heeded his request. In turn, Kiyoomi accepted the loud parts of him—the ones that looked ugly at night when he couldn’t stop going down the list of things he did wrong throughout the day; held him when he shook in frustration. With time, Atsumu learned to give him space when he couldn’t stop pacing the house, checking the stove light for the thirteenth time, or rearranging the towels in the bathroom, refolding them again and again. 

And now here they were. Except, where was _here?_ A fight over someone they wanted to invite into their bedroom? _Kita,_ of all people? What was Kiyoomi so upset about? That he was going to leave him? After all that?

Fat chance. He _still_ has his car keys on his key ring.

Atsumu huffs as he enters the alleyway behind Onigiri Miya, heading straight for the steel stairs that lead up to Samu’s second floor residence. He’s already bracing himself to pound on Osamu’s door to get the lazy bum up out of bed, but strangely enough, when he reaches the top of the landing, the door is unlocked. 

He pushes it open slightly. “Oi, Samu?” he shouts. No response. 

When he opens the door fully, he almost gags. Little plastic bags sit tied up by the genkan, full of what Atsumu assumes are paper towels smelling like _vomit,_ so he can only assume Samu’s night did _not_ mirror his own. 

Samu’s traditional apartment usually toes the line of orderly, like his kitchen and downright slobby, _also_ like his kitchen. As Atsumu hesitantly steps inside, he takes in the cluttered bottles on his low table, the tequila bottle emptied— _it was half-full! That shit wasn’t cheap!—_ and realizes, today it’s the latter. There are clothes strung about the tatami flooring. Rushed. A lot of them. None of them that Atsumu recognizes as Samu’s. 

His heart rate picks up. “Samu!” he calls out again. What if he was robbed? The door was unlocked, anyone could have— 

He hears a weak groan, something like a sniffle. 

Rushing into his bedroom, he pulls back the screen so quick that it rattles noisily. He heaves a sigh of relief as he sees the body laid down on the tatami bed, but his uneasiness doesn’t let up; his twin might be half-dead, suffocating under that weighted blanket. He’s about to shout again, but then he realizes they’re both nursing hangovers—Samu’s probably a trillion times worse than his own.

Atsumu nudges him with a socked toe. “Ya alive?”

Samu groans and tugs the blanket tighter over his head. “No.” 

Atsumu kneels down onto the mat and tries yanking the blanket away. “Come on. I brought juice, it’ll make ya feel better. Ya stink and ya really—” 

“Tsumu,” Samu croaks and covers his face. “I’m naked, hungover and cryin’. Can ya just… _stop?”_ A muffled sigh. “Gimme five minutes.”

Eleven minutes pass when Samu finally crawls into the main area and slumps over the low table that Atsumu has just finished clearing and wiping down. “Nice,” he mumbles to the shiny, wooden surface. 

Atsumu ties the bag of bottles tighter by the genkan with the rest of the garbage he’s about to take out. “Place is a fuckin’ pigsty. Mind tellin’ me what the fuck happened?” 

“Mind tellin’ me where the fuck ya were?” 

“Omi wasn’t feelin’ well so we left early.” 

Samu scoffs into his elbow. “Then why’d I see ya leave with Kita-san?” 

Atsumu freezes. The gods must have it out for him this morning. Maybe they let him have a taste of heaven last night by accident and now he’s being severely punished for his sodomized transgressions. There’s about ten excuses flying around in his head, but for some reason he decides on, “we offered him our guest room since he was tired.” 

It’s outlandish enough that Samu believes him with an _oh_ , because why the hell would Kita be crazy enough to leave with him. It makes no sense. 

Still, he feels on edge as he takes a kneel and props an arm on the table. “Your turn,” he demands. 

Samu sighs and straightens into a slouch. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, careful not to make contact with Atsumu’s searching gaze. He rubs them roughly. “Rin and I had a fight. He… he was supposed to get on the 5 o clock train to Hiroshima.” He shrugs. “Didn’t want to stick around until then. He left right before ya showed up.” 

That’s why the door was unlocked. It should make Atsumu feel better but it doesn’t. Unable to find his usual list of premeditated snark responses when it comes to his brother, he settles with something he knows. He rifles through his tote and hands Samu a mason jar. “Here.” 

Samu uncaps it, struggling with his jelly arms, and takes a large gulp with an _ah._ “Disgusting,” he mutters. 

“A _thank ya_ would be nice.” 

Samu ignores him. “Ya know what the worst part of it was? He didn’t even wait ‘til I was sober to start hashin’ it all out. T’was was embarrassin’. Party was endin’ and I was stumblin’ around tryin’ to clean up and he started gettin’ mad at me for workin’. Said I was a workaholic. That I should just enjoy myself instead of flutterin’ around like a fairy. Said that’s why I hired _employees._ I don't know. It made me mad. I started yellin’ and Akaashi-kun had to pull me off him.” 

Atsumu takes a sip of the juice and hisses. It really is disgusting, but it settles into his system like lube—easy in, easy out. He says, “well ya _were_ pullin’ a _ma,_ handin’ out food and bowin’ at people _._ My onigiri looked like a whale.” 

Green liquid dribbles down his chin when he snorts. 

Silence settles as they both ponder their presently rocky relationships. How fitting, Atsumu thinks, that they get to go through this part together as well. When it came to life, they really weren’t too different after all. 

“I don’t know, Tsumu. I don’t really remember what I said to him last night but this mornin’ he was still mad.” He hesitates and adds, “I… I said he ain’t allowed to tell me shit since we… we, we’re not...” 

_Married_ , is what he doesn’t say. And he doesn’t have to for Atsumu to understand. Still, he can’t help but wince. Marriage was a sore subject between the two of them. Probably the four of them.

There’s a folder in Kiyoomi’s middle desk drawer with a partnership certificate, notarized and everything, with Kiyoomi’s application and paperwork for his legally changed name hiding right behind it in the manila encasing. The partnership was barely legally binding, but they didn’t want to wait for their country to catch up. Atsumu figured it was their own form of protest to go ahead with it and stand on the Olympic stage with golden bands on their fingers, clasped together tightly as they received their medals. Even if it was too late to change Kiyoomi’s jersey before the games. 

While Suna had the most soft-spoken voice in the whole V-League, the guy was the loudest social media presence, with one of the biggest followings. It wasn’t like Atsumu’s own public accounts, managed by the Jackals’ social media management team, sprinkled with game highlights and promotional content from his sponsors and brand deals. No, Suna’s accounts were political activism. He didn’t even give two fucks when EJP suspended him for talking shit about the governor of his prefecture when he pulled out of a bill proposing legal unions. There was a mini social media revolt when he took to the internet to tell them about it, fully uncensored. EJP really didn’t have a choice but to take him back. 

Volleyball games had grown rapidly popular with the Moster’s generation, but Suna—and strangely Waka, when the beefcake was still around—made it relevant. The young people loved him. He was one of EJP’s most prolific players and probably the most vocal gay in all of Japanese sports. It was the only thing about Suna that Kiyoomi liked; he was passionate about the issues that mattered.

Samu scratches his neck, looking embarrassed. “He always says ya two... That ya could’a done more to make demands since yer on the national team,” he mumbles and sips his drink. Smacks it against his lips and pouts. “I… I don’t… he gets annoyed when I defend ya.” 

“Yeah,” Atsumu mutters. “I mean he ain’t all the way wrong. Do ya think he’s wrong?” 

“Not always,” Samu concedes. “But it’s complicated.” 

The whole situation was complicated. Simply put, Suna didn’t want to get married if it wasn’t _recognized_ as marriage. Samu never really vocally complained about it, but he remembers his brother’s face when he first donned his kimono in the big Sakusa house in Hiroo. For a second, he _did_ feel a little selfish. Suna and Samu had been together longer than any of the other couples their age.

There’s a rustle under one of the fallen pieces of clothing as Samu leans over to grab it. His scrubs from last night. He pulls his leather pack of loose leaf Meivus and starts rolling a cigarette. 

Atsumu sighs. “I thought ya got rid of that, ya scrub.” 

Samu shrugs and tucks it into his mouth as he struggles with the light. “Chef's habit,” he mumbles, his stupid half-excuse sticking to the flimsy filter as takes a deep drag. 

Atsumu swats the offending cloud away. “What’re ya gonna do?” 

“What can I do?” Samu asks with a sour shrug. “He told me not to call. That he was leavin’ and needed the space to figure out if it was fer good.” 

His stomach hurts just looking at Samu, the lackluster way he draws in the tobacco like it’s all that’ll keep him going, the tremble in his fingers when he ashes it on the ashtray hidden under the table. 

The easy happiness he had with Suna always made Atsumu sick with jealousy in his teenage years—would he ever find someone to look at him like that? They just fit, naturally, inexplicably, _silently_. Samu’s cigarette shakes between lips and Atsumu thinks if this is what it would feel like to win, he’d rather lose.

Briefly, he wonders if Kiyoomi is at home making this same worried face, and he feels the burn in his eyes.

He thinks about Kita’s smile against his lips, and wonders if it was still there on the train ride back to Amagasaki. His throat constricts.

“Fuck,” he mutters and wipes a hand across his slowly crumbling face, hoping to glue it back together with the admission alone of, “I fucked up.” 

Samu offers him his cigarette.

It forces a laugh out of his lungs. “Go fuck yerself.” 

He spends the next hour cleaning Samu’s apartment for him while he showers and gets ready to open for the afternoon. When he grabs his things to leave, Samu doesn’t say thank you. He hands him a pack of polaroids taken from the night before and a box of fatty tuna onigiri. 

He says, “see ya on Wednesday?” 

And Atsumu responds with an eye roll, “call ‘im, ya scrub.” 

  
  


-

  
  
  


The first thing he does when he gets home is pick one of the pictures from his bag and grab a magnet from the top drawer next to the sink to put it on their refrigerator. It made him burst out laughing (and then _crying)_ on the train—Samu’s drunken scrawl of _LOSERS!!_ underneath a picture of him and Kiyoomi posed in his apartment. He holds it between his fingers and the cartoon strawberry as he places it on the cool surface. His eyes land on Kiyoomi’s possessive hand on his chest, curling into him as awkward as an armadillo. Atsumu looks good; _they_ look good. 

He leaves another picture on the counter, a question on his lips. 

“Omi?” he calls out with a shake in his voice. He already called out _tadaima_ to no response. His car was still in the driveway. 

He walks into their living room, glances at the pitiful _finished_ pile of books, unchanged and still stacked next to Atsumu’s records on the cube shelving. “Omi?” he tries again, this time with the feeling ready to burst out of his chest and spill from his eyes. 

There’s a rustle down the hall. A _clang_ and an _ow_ that follows. 

He jogs down the hall, wary of slipping on the hardwoods (again) and stops outside the guest room. He gently elbows the door open. “Omi-kun?” He tries again and feels his eyes burn when he sees him on the floor, clutching his head. 

He can’t help when he starts rambling, _“baby baby,_ I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave. Maybe I did, just for a second. But I’m sorry and I just wanted to tell you that you’re right and I’m wrong and I love ya for good and last night was _amazin’_ but if ya— 

“Can you shut _up,”_ Kiyoomi hisses and ducks under the bed skirt in search of something. 

Um. 

That’s not reassuring at all. 

“Is that ya tellin’ me I should move out?” he asks in a pained whisper. 

Kiyoomi sighs heavily, muffled under the bed but still loud enough for the knot in Atsumu’s abdomen to tighten. He crawls back out and slumps on his knees, back curved to Atsumu. “I’m sorry too. I forgive you.” He runs a hand through his curls, shaking the tautness of them loose. He looks crazed when he looks over his shoulder. “Now can you help me?” 

His buttcrack is showing. Atsumu really wants to kiss him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks and kneels down next to him. 

Kiyoomi blushes bright red and says, “I wanted to get you something… to apologize. A peace offering—”

Right then a deafening _meow_ is heard, high-pitched and _terrified._

“Ya _didn’t_ ,” Atsumu breathes and hurriedly ducks his head under the dust ruffle. Sure enough, tucked into the dark corner next to the wall, is a black kitten with a white spot above its right eye. Little tufts of white on its small paws where it tucks its head. It hisses in warning. 

Kiyoomi looks like he wants to be buried alive when Atsumu resurfaces with a gape. “Samu said you wanted one and… well…” he trails off and looks away. 

Atsumu frowns. “When did he say that?” 

“When I got you the harness. He said that you wanted—” 

Atsumu breaks down laughing, crying, he’s not sure. All he knows is this is the worst day of his life, without a doubt. It also might be the best, but only because of the sheer enormity of chaos in something as simple as an inconsequential day in his life. This part can also be kind of beautiful too. He’s slowly learning that, looking at Kiyoomi’s pout. 

“I—” he wheezes out, “I said I wanted a puppy. _Pup-py._ I literally told him I wanted a spunky little shiba that acted like ya. _Not_ a cat.” After a second of thought he says, “but now that this little fella’s here I suppose it does kinda look like ya. He’s even got a beauty mark above his eye.” 

“I’m going to kill Osamu,” Kiyoomi declares. 

“Please do,” Atsumu agrees cheerfully and rubs his cheek in thought. “I wonder if this is ‘cos of ‘kaasan’s birthday. I knew he wasn’t over it.” 

“We can take it back then,” he decides with a derisive fist in his palm. 

Atsumu goes under the bed again with a hand outstretched and a _here kitty, kitty_. Another hiss, accompanied by a swipe, and he retracts his hand, nearly _doinking_ his head when he pulls back out. 

“If ya can catch it,” he laughs. 

Twenty minutes later—and two stupid brains finally coming together with a single intelligent thought—they lay a few shreds of meal-prepped chicken on one of Atsumu’s geometric ceramic plates that Kiyoomi hates since it doesn’t go with his eggshell white set. They place it at the end of the bed and wait with their heads and arms hanging over the mattress, poised for striking.

Kiyoomi sighs. “I don’t think I thought this through,” he finally admits. 

“Ya think?” Atsumu hasn’t stopped smiling. 

Silence engulfs them again as Atsumu plays with the hangnail on his pinky. He wonders where to start, if it’s okay to even begin. 

“I… I do apologize. And I do forgive you,” Kiyoomi tells him after a few bated breaths. “I started feeling insecure and it was wrong of me to snap at you like that. And I know you don’t like it when I yell, but I felt so _frustrated_. I want to give you anything you ask for, but for a brief moment I wondered… if that wasn’t... me.” 

“You are what I ask for,” Atsumu argues. He brings the pinky up to his mouth and says over a bite, “I love ya and I just felt like ya weren’t gettin’ that. Or trustin’ me.” 

“Stop that,” Kiyoomi commands.

He lets the hand drop with a sigh. “But ya were also right about me not letting you know beforehand. I just… I don’t think I really knew what I wanted when we first started—” he gestures with his dangling arm, “—all of this. But I might now… I don’t know. I _do_ know it ain’t worth it if yer just doin’ it for me.” 

“Tell me,” Kiyoomi urges.

“Yer my favorite person,” he starts by saying. _Get it off your chest_. “But I want both of ya to be my people. Does that make sense?” He shakes his head with a self-deprecating chuckle. “It sounded a lot cooler on tha train.” 

“I bet,” Kiyoomi comments sarcastically. 

“Shuddup,” he says with a smile and a shoulder shove. He sobers. “I just. I thought that Kita looked good sittin’ in yer chair. I can picture ya both takin’ turns sittin’ on it with yer book or his… I actually don’t know what he reads. But I want to. I think I got caught up _tryin'_ to know as quick as possible, ya know?”

“I do,” Kiyoomi says. He props himself up on an elbow and turns to Atsumu with the most affectionate smile. His pulse jumps as he remembers: _this is it_. This is what he saw all those years ago, in an empty gymnasium, in the corner of a dark bar in Okinawa and every morning when he thanks whatever deity pops into his head that he gets to exist at the same time as a person like Kiyoomi. 

“C’mere,” he whispers. 

Atsumu does not need to be told twice. 

He holds him and kisses him and tells him, “tell me, because I think I’d go crazy not knowing. I need to… I need…” 

_Control_. It’s Kiyoomi’s schtick—what he gets off on and how he functions. Atsumu ceded his own a long time ago, after years of trying to micromanage other people’s opinions of him and overexert himself trying to please others when he realized, as an adult, people didn’t really like him all that much. He discovered that, with Kiyoomi, life was a helluva lot better when he _didn’t_ try.

And when Kiyoomi looms over him, peppering his chin with soft nibbles, he lets him. His pullover comes off with leisure. His track pants sliding down his thighs only when Kiyoomi starts moving lower on his chest, putting his mouth on all of his favorite parts of Atsumu, underneath his right peck and above his belly button. 

“Are you still sore?” he asks around his hip bone. 

Atsumu gives an experimental wiggle. “A little,” he admits. 

Kiyoomi breathes on the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Want to fuck me?” 

An easy question, but a complicated answer. He never tops with Kiyoomi, after their disastrous first times together, they both agreed the orgasms were _much_ better with Kiyoomi sticking it in him. 

He giggles at the thought. 

“What?” Kiyoomi frowns. 

“Nothin’,” he smiles. “We still got lube in here?” 

They do, because apparently Kiyoomi left it out for Kita, even though the latter explained he wasn’t comfortable masturbating in their home.

Before Atsumu can sink into _that_ vivid imagery, he tears off Kiyoomi’s tee and jeans so he can get to work. “Towel?” he asks because they’re currently on Kiyoomi’s obaachan’s sheets, pawned off to him by his 'kaasan since they’re kind of a garish purple with lace that clashed with modern lines of the Sakusa home. It didn’t go with anything in this home either, but Kiyoomi is sentimental like that. Plus, he really can’t say no to the people he cares about.

Kiyoomi shakes his head, tossing his curls messily against the pillow. “I’m clean.” 

Atsumu smirks as he tickles the inside of Kiyoomi’s thigh. “Ah, so ya were already planning on makeup sex. Ya _wanted_ me to fuck ya.” 

“Maybe,” Kiyoomi admits with a pretty blush as he shimmies his briefs off with Atsumu’s helping hand. 

Looking at him, naked, soft against his leg, Atsumu _decides_ that this is it. If Kita wants to be in the picture, then he’ll be the happiest man on Earth. But Kiyoomi waiting for his dick to be served on a silver platter? This is pretty close to perfect.

Kiyoomi huffs and spreads his knees. His hand wanders the planes of his abdomen, teasing the skin in preparation. “You just gonna watch?” 

“Well if ya wanna give me a _show,”_ he replies as he repeats the words from the night before. He leans over and grabs one of those thick thighs to spread him wider. Kiyoomi’s dick twitches against his skin. “But I think I wanna _taste_.” 

Without preamble, he licks up his thigh, tongue brushing against the coarse hairs. He grabs his cock so he can make space for his mouth as he sucks on his balls. 

“ _Oh,”_ Kiyoomi gasps. 

He tugs on one, barely using his teeth and is satisfied with the impatient wiggle he gets in his hips, the blood filling out in his cock. It smells so good down here, the musk filling his nostrils as he starts working around the thin skin to nuzzle the hair. 

“Ya smell amazing,” he murmurs. 

“Hurry _up,”_ Kiyoomi hisses and hooks his leg around his hip to bring him in closer. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he snarkily replies, and gives his cock a brutal jerk. 

Kiyoomi throws his head against the pillows. “L-lube—” 

But Atsumu gets his mouth on him, savors the little bead of precome on the head as he gives him a loud suckle. “Delicious,” he notes. 

“Shut _up—ah!”_

He starts slow, with a tight grip at the base, as he takes Kiyoomi’s length on his tongue, bouncing against the roof of his mouth and down his throat. He’s still hungover, so he gags in the _not_ playful way but tries to chalk it up as intentional when Kiyoomi starts moving his hips and forcing the bob he’s got going.

When he’s all the way hard, Atsumu fumbles for the bottle of lube and pours some into his fist, clenching it to warm it up. He replaces his mouth for a grip and jerks him off slowly so he can start prepping. Kiyoomi’s not quite as used to the burn of the stretch as much as Atsumu is, so he needs all the distraction he can get. 

“Ya looked so good last night,” he muses, mostly to divert attention from the uncapped lube spilling on the sheets and on his fingers as they drag up his thigh. “I wanted ya to fuck me so bad on that table. Do ya think ya’d let me bend ya over in tha back and take ya from behind?” 

“N _ooo_ ,” Kiyoomi says, but his grip in the sheets is telling. 

“What about a movie theatre?” Atsumu asks as he gets a finger around the pucker, he feels Kiyoomi flutter around the first finger so he hurries with the rest of that thought: “sit ya in my lap and let ya ride me as we pretend to watch a movie?” He adds in a whisper, “and if other people are there, we’d have to shut ya up. A gag, maybe?” 

Kiyoomi grabs at his shoulders with blunt nails as he starts scissoring with his second finger. “Hell _no_ ,” he grits out, but he’s rocking now. 

He times his fingers with his twisted wrist, wringing another groan out of his husband. “What about…” 

He stops that line of thinking. It’s too fresh— 

“T-tell me,” Kiyoomi demands, and digs his nails in deeper. 

He nudges his third finger in right as he says, “what if I showed Kita-san how to fuck ya?” 

Kiyoomi groans and circles his hips. “T-tell me more.” 

Atsumu’s boxers will have to go in the laundry tonight. They’re already sticking uncomfortably to his skin. “Fuck,” he groans and works faster. “Would show him how to talk to ya to get ya so needy. Ya’d like that, huh? Yer never needy, but I bet ya’d be needy for his cock.” 

Kiyoomi nods his head, eyes shut, and moans high when Atsumu brushes up against his prostate. “S-shit,” he groans. “I-I’m ready.”

“Condom?” Atsumu asks, whipping his head to the nightstand, not faltering his pace. 

“Shit, _shit. Don’t stop._ Just put it in.” 

“Fuck,” he swears. “Yer sure?” 

“ _Do it.”_

Jesus, his underwear will need to be _burned._ He pulls his fingers out gently, and gets the offending damp cotton off his dick while he still works Kiyoomi with his right hand. He thumbs the tube of lube and strokes himself, once, twice before lining himself up. 

“Ya want it like this, baby?”

Kiyoomi nods, throwing one of his legs over his shoulder like the bendy noodle he is. It takes all of his strength not to jizz on the spot. He inserts himself slowly, mindful of Kiyoomi’s comfort, but the fucker _won’t stop moving._

“B-baby, yer gonna have to calm down if ya want this to last,” he suggests as he stills three centimeters inside him, already _dying_ ; twitching violently to ward off the orgasm. It’s _so warm._

His husband’s hands burn his shoulders, leaving hot imprints as he works his way up into his gelled hair. He gives a forceful tug until Atsumu is eye level with him. Kiyoomi’s black eyes, looking so hurt just hours before, hypnotize him—into moving, into doing whatever the fuck he commands. Atsumu would do anything for that look. 

The eye contact is maintained, forced by Kiyoomi’s strong hands as he begins rocking into him slowly. He steals a kiss and then another until Kiyoomi moves his head to the side to nuzzle his ear. “I thought you said you’d… show him how needy I can be,” he challenges huskily with hot breath shooting straight to the head of his cock. 

Atsumu grabs his leg forcefully and tosses him onto his side. “Like this?” he asks and thrusts deep inside, feeling Kiyoomi’s full-body shudder as he spoons him from behind.

Kiyoomi grabs the sheet and throws a dirty look over his shoulder. “Asshole.” 

Atsumu leisurely grinds into him, his hips rounding in a circle, teasing the nerves that get Kiyoomi so hot and bothered. “Yer gonna make me blush,” he jokes and bites down on his shoulder. 

His hips give a jolt. He makes his way to Kiyoomi’s front to tease the head of his pretty cock with his free hand. Just a light brush of his fingers is all it takes for Kiyoomi to shiver again, moving impatiently against him. 

“Eager,” Atsumu comments casually, snaking an arm under Kiyoomi’s torso to hold him closer. “Ya really wanted this huh? Ya been thinkin’ ‘bout takin’ my cock since I stormed off? Did ya get yerself off in an angry huff?” 

Kiyoomi meets his shallow swivelling with unbridled aggression. “I swear if you—” 

He pinches a nipple, rubbing it in between his thumb and forefinger. His own weren’t that sensitive, but he loves to get his hands or lips on Kiyoomi’s, if only to watch the way he throws his head back. 

It never fails to disappoint, he notes, as Kiyoomi groans, moving insistently under Atsumu’s chin and snaking an arm behind Atsumu to ground himself in his already ruffled hair. “Tsumu— _hah—_ you—” 

“Th-this you being needy?” he asks with a tsk and pinches harder. Kiyoomi’s cock feels heavier than it did a second ago, slicker too. “I wonder what Kita-san would say.” 

_“Please,”_ he hisses. 

“Was that so hard?” Atsumu asks. He gives his cock another brisk jerk before hoisting one of his heavy ass thighs under his forearm. The exertion burns the muscles that have been _admittedly_ lacking strength training. Oh well, he’s here now. 

He works into him faster, slamming straight against his prostate, feels himself brush up against the nub with every shove of his cock. “Yer so tight,” Atsumu comments needlessly. It’s been _months_. “Good thing... I’m gettin’ ya ready fer Kita-san.” 

“Fuck,” Kiyoomi curses and starts jerking himself off. 

He’s not a sadist like Kiyoomi is, so he watches over his shoulder in rapt interest how he thumbs his slit quickly, like Atsumu would his nipple, before he uses the edges of his fingers to drag up and down his cock. Atsumu likes a tough grip; Kiyoomi’s all about air in between spaces. 

He pistons his hips to match Kiyoomi’s loose fist. “B-baby,” he warns, marking his neck with the bites he knows he likes—hard enough to feel, light enough to disappear in an hour. 

“Y-yeah,” Kiyoomi agrees and works himself into a frenzy, moving in both directions. 

Ah shit. He’s two seconds away—“W-where didja want me—” 

“Fuck, g-give me— _then,_ pull _out.”_

He closes his eyes and tries to hold out for Kiyoomi, but the engulfing heat as his husband clenches around him in his climax proves to be too tempestuous, and his abdomen contracts in a familiar pull. Kiyoomi, busy coming into an expectant hand, with a grunt stuck in his diaphragm and an elongated _fuuuuuck_ , spilling from his lips—does not expect the ferocity of Atsumu pulling out to release across his muscled back and ass with a whiny moan. 

The groaned, pleasured _fuuuuuck_ becomes an annoyed, _“What the fuck!”_

“ _Shit,_ sorry, lemme just get—” This is why Atsumu doesn’t top. Kiyoomi’s still scary, even as a bottom. 

He throws his legs over the side of the bed and takes a shaky step— 

_Mreow!_

_“Fuck!”_ he shrieks and has to make the split second decision to either fall back onto Kiyoomi’s spunky back or hit his forehead on the wall. He chooses the wall.

It’s not too bad of a bang, but it hurts his delicate, hungover, post-orgasmic composition nonetheless. “I totally forgot about that,” he mutters in direction of the bed, as he rubs his forehead. _That_ being the cat tail he just stepped on. He does kinda feel bad though, for subjecting their new child (?) to some pretty scandalous sex. And on the first night too. Yikes. They were already terrible parents. 

Kiyoomi glares at him in the most vulnerable position, ass high in the air, Atsumu's come drying on the dimples above his crack, and his jizz hand raised so as not to drip on the sheets. “Since you don’t have a concussion,” he drawls over his shoulder, “would you mind grabbing me a washcloth?” 

“Sure thing, _babe_. I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for askin’,” he mumbles to himself as he opens the door and heads to the washroom across the hall. He dampens the cloth, rolls it up in a ball, and aims it straight for the back of Kiyoomi’s head. 

  
  


-

  
  


Turns out nobody on the Black Jackals wants a cat. 

Atsumu fretted over whether or not it was going to be okay locked up in the bathroom with the litter box, food, and legitimately _useless toys_ that Kiyoomi had bought her in a panicked, emotional frenzy. It was a _her_ , but Atsumu can’t stop calling her _him_ , meanwhile Kiyoomi has affixed the _it_ when speaking about the object/animal. And in lieu of an actual name, they’ve called her _cat_ since they were currently in the process of finding her a new home. 

(Kiyoomi _also_ fretted about her being locked up in the bathroom, but for other reasons. Namely, his cherished stacks of expensive white towels.) 

Looking at him across the court now during their serve and receive drills, Kiyoomi looks just as distraught as he did this morning at 6 AM, staring at their bathroom door. If Atsumu wasn’t so scared of accidentally letting her loose after the three hours of trying to catch her the night before, he would’ve let Kiyoomi take his morning poo in peace, but he ushered him to the guest washroom, where Atsumu likes to do his business in the morning since they were pretty synced up, biologically speaking. 

Unfortunately, all he really had the day before was his very natural, very _green_ juices. Kiyoomi made him drive when they walked out the door at 6:30—penance for his stinky shit. 

He still kind of feels bad. He turns to Adriah, who’s also bouncing his ball and prepping for a serve. 

“Hey,” Atsumu starts casually, as he spins the ball in his hands. “do ya like—“ 

“I’m a dog person, mate,” he grunts before he tosses for a jump. 

Well shit. 

Barnes crouches to receive it, and Satoh tosses the ball up high enough for Oliver, who is two steps into his lead up. It slams it down with a snap of his wrist.

They rotate, so Kiyoomi is next to receive and Adriah runs to return back in line. Atsumu smirks and takes four steps. 

The ball floats right by Kiyoomi’s shoulder, but he gets ten fingers up in the nick of time, the ball sailing just over Satoh’s head for a perfect neutral jump set. Kiyoomi takes three steps back, faces the court with a hop before beginning the many steps of his jump.

Atsumu jogs by to get in line as he watches firsthand the muscles of his calf stretch to their limits and then fold behind his long body. Satoh knows better than to set low to Kiyoomi, so the ball hits the top of his hand first before rolling into his palm with a _smack_. 

“Nice kill,” he teases.

Kiyoomi throws him a glare over his shoulder as he goes to retrieve the ball under the net for his serve. Right. Cat. 

Turning to Coach Foster who sits at the bench by himself—the other assistant coaches working with the servers—Atsumu asks, “are ya a cat person ya seem—“

Foster chuckles. “I have two cats. My wife doesn’t want another.” He slaps his back with his clipboard. “Nice try, though.” 

“It was worth a shot,” Atsumu mutters. “Ya want me to swap with Satoh?” 

Foster purses his lips. “Sure. He needs to work on his floater.”

He walks back onto the court and slaps Satoh’s shoulder after Inunaki fails his spike with a net ball. “Wanna switch?” he asks the second-string setter. 

“Yeah, why not,” he agrees with a thankful nod. Still nervous, even though he's proved himself in the few months he's been with them.

“Those were some good tosses,” Atsumu allows. “Also, do ya like cats ‘cos—“ 

The spikers in line all groan in exasperation. Except for Bokuto who says, “I LOVE cats!” 

Atsumu grins. Finally a bite. “Well ain’t today yer lucky day! Omi-kun and I found—“

“Adopted,” Aran corrects from the back, with a cough. Atsumu tried him first.

“—a little girl cat and—“

“Girl cat,” Adriah laughs. 

“I mean I _love_ cats, but I’m allergic,” Bokuto hurriedly clarifies as the rest of them watch him expectantly, frowns marring their faces.

Fuck.

Foster shakes his head fondly and blows his whistle for Kiyoomi to serve.

  
  


-

  
  
  


Aran hikes his duffle over his shoulder, knocking it into Atsumu, as he readies to leave the locker room. 

Atsumu, in the middle of rubbing lotion on his calves on the bench, scowls and says, “ _ow, bitch,_ what the hell?” 

“Ya know,” Aran muses as he hooks his Apple watch onto his wrist. “Shin feeds strays around the farm. Maybe ya should ask him if he wants to take in yer cat.” 

Next to him, Kiyoomi sits up straighter—having finished rubbing his gangly feet and stuffing the offending appendages into his black socks. “That’s a great idea. Atsumu was planning on going to Kobe to visit his okaasan anyway.” 

“I was?” Atsumu questions. 

Kiyoomi looks at him. _You idiot._

The night before comes to mind. The long conversation of do's, don'ts and _never's._ Kiyoomi trusts him. Atsumu needs to tell him everything. That's how it would go. Still, they never agreed to their weekend plans.

“I am,” Atsumu agrees after a second of staring at his partner, giving his thigh a squeeze, and looks back to Aran. 

His friend frowns at their little display and gives a shrug. “Just a thought. I can’t take all yer complaining and Shin likes cats, ya know.” 

Atsumu… did not know that. He tries to dig up memories of after school walks, of Kita feeding strays on his way to the bus stop. Nothing. He remembers his classmates’ pencil bag contents: little stickers and pens with cute little characters taped onto them. Then he remembers lunch on the roof once, Kita helping him with physics (after a week of drumming up the courage to ask) and his leather sack half-empty, full of only the necessities; calculator, three pens, one red, and two mechanical pencils, erasers hardly used. He remembered looking at his own fox eraser gripped with a clammy hand as he erased his mistakes _,_ feeling like a twelve year old. 

But then Kita called it cute, and Atsumu nearly jumped off the roof railings in ecstasy. 

“Thanks, Aran-kun,” he grins. Aran can be nice when he wants to be. He got Kita into overalls, the least he can do is be nice. 

Aran rolls his eyes, but brightens when he says, “Also, Anisa wants to know when ya two are free to come over fer dinner. She’s been dyin’ to have people over in our new place.” 

Kiyoomi finishes tying his shoe laces. “Sounds lovely. We’re busy this weekend, but what about next Tuesday? We only have morning practice then.” How does he memorize their weekly schedules so quick? 

“Sure,” Aran agrees with a beam at his husband and another knock of his duffle—this time at Atsumu's head. 

When he’s gone, Atsumu reaches for his phone in his pocket, heading straight for the contact dated six weeks ago in his inbox. 

“What are you going to tell him?” 

This moment has been two months in the making. A muggy, summer night, comes to mind. In his favorite white sneakers, walking to an izakaya for a ten year reunion with fate.

Atsumu stares at the blinking cursor, thumbs frozen over his keyboard. There’s a million things he wants to write, and none of them come to mind as casual enough to warrant, ' _hey do you want the cat kiyoomi got me as an apology gift for our fight when I was trying to see you without permission? also, do you maybe want to date me? lmk. thanx.'_

He sighs and hands the phone to Kiyoomi. “Can ya do it?” 

Kiyoomi chuckles and shakes his head fondly. He types out a message quickly, the words the both of them want to say falling freely from his thumbs.

As Atsumu watches, he realizes, y _eah. This is it._

  
  


-

  
  


**_Hey! I’ve been thinking about you and just wanted to check in. How are you feeling?_ ** **_Sorry for passing out when you were over lol. I want to make it up to you. Would you like to get dinner with me this weekend? I’m free on friday and saturday, if that works but if that doesn’t, let me know and we can figure out another day._ **

**_Also. do you like cats?_ **

**_omi says hi, by the way :)_ **

**_Hi Atsumu and Kiyoomi,_ **

**_I like cats. I’m free on Saturday._ **

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, this chap was a lot longer, but i liked this ending best! that just means the next one is gonna be the longest!
> 
> y'all are amazing for following me and these idiots on this journey of love, in all its forms. your kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc, have rly been motivating me (me! a procrastinator!) to finish this and i can't believe it's almost done! it's with a heavy heart that i announce that in just two weeks this story will be over ! ah !
> 
> alright, enough mush. i hope ya enjoyed the tush ! xx
> 
> [my hq twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/dindie__)
> 
> [my inspo playlist hehe](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ATVKQAgObmFJgDMsqZpJW?si=WAhMVXrfRMepsTum-bSAeA)


	7. dreams of yesterday, memories for tomorrow

Memories are a fickle thing. 

All the years flicker into his mind like dreams; clouds of imaginary landscapes with people he doesn’t recognize, with some he hasn’t seen in years... 

... in a home that isn’t his. 

Among the white walls of this illusionary home, a framed photo exists, larger than the others. Two men gaze at each other, wrapped up in a world he doesn’t understand and has never known. A black and white image that contrasts the purple light sitting in the windowsill and in the pink light stretching across the wooden floorboards as the sun begins to rise and play with the dappled shadows through the leaves of a monstera. 

And Shinsuke thinks, _what am I doing here?_

Of course, deep in the cavities of his being, he knows how, intrinsically, like the seasons of change: harvest in the fall, process through the winter, and beginning the cycle again in the spring, tending to the strong seedlings. In the summer, cultivation happens and unlike the machines that make the work faster and endurable, Shinsuke uses his bare hands to reach into the fertile soil of his chest to plant a stalk in hopes it would grow, but knowing that his efforts were in vain. 

The fall would bring a drought. This plant will die.

However, the sun, going to bed with the remnants of summer, looks to the next period of growth with a hopeful glint in green-brown eyes. A nostalgic smile over sake in an izakaya. On a train platform it anxiously awaits a response for an answer to a call he never heard.

Memories were a fickle thing. They changed constantly throughout the years, filtering in and out of conscious and unconscious webbing. The only thing Shinsuke trusts is the daily grind of coffee beans, tying a basket around his waist and heading out into the paddies to dip his hands and legs in cold water, submerged in the details of his present.

But. 

Memories of Miya Atsumu never changed. In fact, they festered like a growth. Like a plant throughout an unfavorable drought, still drawing in sunlight: eagerly, hungrily. 

Atsumu was, _is,_ the only— 

The _click clack_ of the turn signals, and the steady _buzzbuzz_ of his phone in his pocket, interrupts his thoughts. He reaches into his jacket to flick open the notification.

“Hello?” he answers. 

_“Good morning, Shin. Do you know when you’ll be back? Shoichi and I are thinkin’ about heading out to the farm in a bit.”_

He glances at his watch. It’s just about the time he would be joining his siblings if he was at his home, outside of Nishinomiya. At six in the morning, tea, coffee and three bowls of rice would have been prepared by the time they’d be pulling into the dirt road. 

After his obaachan died, he inherited her plot of land and home outside of the city. It was a natural decision, seeing as he had been the one to care for her in her later years. His older sister still lived in Amagasaki, staying close to their parents and was in the midst of starting her own family. When the kids were in school, she came to help out with the land during the fall harvest. He had his own hired hands, but she too was used to the toils of their youth. His younger brother, Shoichi, helped too but only because he needed the extra pay to get him through college.

“I’m headin’ to the station right now. I’ll be there in an hour an’ a half.” 

_“Sounds good…”_ Asako pauses and asks, _“did ya have a good time?”_

Memories that aren’t his emerge around his periphery, along Route 18, with the many other cars honking in the morning rush hour traffic. His fingers brush the fine leather of the passenger door. This car is very nice. The new overalls he sits in are well-worn now. Sticky, and vaguely uncomfortable.

He says, “I did.” And it’s not a lie. Not even a half-truth. 

Asako chuckles, a funny sound to untrained ears. To Shinsuke, it sounds like relief. _“That’s good. Ya need to get out every now and then.”_

He sighs. “Give Fujiwara-san the keys to the greenhouse if ya get there before me. I’ll see ya soon,” and hangs up before she can wheedle more information out of him. 

A driving gloved hand turns off the blinkers after successfully merging lanes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you across the river? Might be quicker than making a transfer downtown.” 

Shinsuke straightens in his seat and turns to his driving companion. “No, thank you, Kiyoomi-kun. You’ve already been gracious enough to drive me.” 

Kiyoomi makes a noise in the back of his throat, an acknowledgement or a refusal, Shinsuke isn’t sure. He doesn’t verbalize his own agreement but begins to merge into the next lane, regardless. 

When he had woken up, the first thing he did was stare at the ceiling. His body was trained for early mornings, earlier than the sun, and as such, the precious two hours of sleep he gathered had faded rather quickly as he rose in an unfamiliar room. If anything, he was more awake than he had been the whole night before. 

_And the night before…_

He had wandered down the halls, taking in the small details of the couple’s home. There were succulents crowding shelves and books stacked next to each other in no particular order. Atsumu had never been an avid reader—too impatient to sit through something longer than what was required for a homework setting. Must be the other Miya’s, then. 

Taking in these precious glimpses, he felt something sit in his chest. With its weight, it crushed the precious stalk that was unfurling with the nourishment it had received in a coffee shop in Port Town. In the genkan just meters from where he stood. 

After a quick search on his phone, he saw the station was a decent fifteen minute walk away. He had no experience in situations like this. Was he supposed to leave before they woke up? Stay until they did? 

He made his way to the kitchen, looking for something to leave a note with but Miy— _Kiyoomi,_ his mind corrected—stood there, already waiting with a mug of tea. His back was to Shinsuke, still dressed in the silk robe he had tossed on the night before, when he had shown him the guest room… and the many images of Atsumu he had compiled into a scrapbook. He was deliberate about rummaging under the bed for a bottle of lubricant and placing it on the nightstand. 

“If you feel like it,” Kiyoomi had explained and pointedly glanced at his boxers. 

Shinsuke had shaken his head. He couldn’t. The image of Atsumu’s climax had been burned into his retinas and he had already decided in the moment that he would contemplate it later. The memory would never leave him and he wasn’t worried it would. 

Kiyoomi’s back had moved as he drank the aromatic tea that was sitting on the counter. In his hands was the note he had left in his gift for Atsumu. 

It was… personal. He had no doubt that Kiyoomi would interpret his words for something stronger than affection. There was heat in his cheeks. Despite everything that happened the night before—when he had let instincts take control—he hadn’t known how to interact in the abstract sobriety of morning. The two hours of sleep hadn’t helped.

He cleared his throat once. 

Kiyoomi turned to him, and without acknowledging the note’s existence, said, “oh you’re awake. Would you like some tea?”

Shinsuke shook his head. “I would love ta’, but I need to get back to the farm.” He bowed once to show his gratitude. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure. For allowing him the privilege of watching them the night before, for granting Shinsuke the permission to finally _touch._ For offering tea. 

He straightened his bow and said, “Thank you.” _For all of it._ “I’ll... be leavin’ now.” 

Kiyoomi reached into the fridge to hand him a bottle of water. Shinsuke took it with another thank you on his lips, but Kiyoomi brushed past him instead. “Tea’s on the stove. Let me get dressed and I’ll drive you to the station. I need to stop by the market anyway.” 

“That’s not necess…” he began to say but Kiyoomi was already walking down the hall. 

Kiyoomi leans back in his seat. They’re stuck behind the line of cars trying to get off on the same exit. Briefly, Shinsuke wonders how many of the other sedans in front of him hold occupants that are being chauffeured by their high school crush’s husbands. 

_This is incredibly awkward,_ he thinks to say, to lighten the oppressive mood, but chooses not to. Based on last night’s activities alone, he supposes Kiyoomi isn’t the type to welcome Shinsuke’s sardonic sense of humor. The uncomfortable car ride is made worse by the extra effort Kiyoomi had taken to drive to a further station so he wouldn’t have to transfer onto the Keihan Main Line in the Hirakata morning bustle. 

Twenty extra minutes worth of effort, not including the standstill traffic.

He glances over to Kiyoomi again. He sips the same sweet smelling wakoucha in a well-loved thermos, his gloved hands stubbornly refusing the heat the warm container offers in its grip. Thick brows furrow as someone tries to cut in front of their car. The bottom half of his sharp features are covered by a face mask—why he wears it, Shinsuke isn’t sure. It’s just the two of them sharing the air inside his black Lexus.

Stubbornly, he had refused to learn more about the man from the magazines and ads he had seen him featured in. After Osamu had told him about the relationship he had with Atsumu over a delivery, Shinsuke had felt that thing in his chest wither away. He stopped watching V-League games for a month. Obaachan told him when his Olympic friends were on the television; Shinsuke said he needed to catalogue the rainwater gauge.

Of course, he had no reason to stake claim over Atsumu. The last time they spoke before the long, ten year silence was during Riseki’s graduation. It was a brief exchange of pleasantries: ‘ _Oh yer farmin’ now?’_ and ‘ _I saw ya got subbed in for that final set. Congratulations.’_ Atsumu had slipped away before the plans were cemented for a brief get together with those who had been able to make it. Their last words were, _'s_ _ee ya ‘round!’_ and _'_ _I’ll see ya on TV,’_ respectively. 

In his gut he knew that Atsumu would never be his. Once in a blue moon, he would abandon his reservations, but he knew it was a selfish fantasy, entertained on sticky sweet afternoons during the summer. Sometimes, he held it close to body like a scarf during the winter—a consoling warmth to indulge in. Because that’s how he felt around Atsumu... it was like jogging next to a meteor; edging too close to the sun. Warm in every way.

It would have never worked because Atsumu had his own path to blaze. Shinsuke’s path was simple, just as he wanted. They were different people. 

Looking at Kiyoomi now, he can see how someone like Atsumu could have fallen for different. On the surface, they couldn’t be more opposite. Atsumu’s hazel eyes could burn through expectations; Kiyoomi’s dark gaze silently tore through defenses. It was like watching the sun and moon exchange positions in the sky.

And Shinsuke was stuck on the Earth.

Those black eyes flick to him briefly. “I read your note,” Kiyoomi comments unceremoniously. 

“I saw,” Shinsuke replies. Ah, finally. _Here it comes._

Kiyoomi sips his tea again before placing it in the cupholder. The gesture spells measured and precise thought. After a prolonged moment, he pulls the letter from his pocket. 

“Thank you for the bag of rice,” he says. “But I think you should say this to him in person.” 

The paper is placed in Shinsuke’s lap. His words, toiled after many hours sitting at the table, stare back at him.

_Atsumu,_

_I’ve enjoyed seeing you again. More than I should… I hope you can forgive me for being candid._

_Perhaps I should begin by telling you how much you meant to me, back in high school. I was a coward when we went to get coffee and I should’ve told you after you had confessed your own prior feelings to me. Consider my shock hearing the person that I held in the highest regard, during my youth, declare their romantic interest in me. Disbelief was the first thing I felt, joy was the second and acceptance was the third._

_I see how happy you are. It is in no part, I hope, due to the love you share with your partner. I should offer congratulations, since I never did. It was rude of me and I apologize. I hope you continue to stay well and enjoy your lives together._

_May the rest of your years be blessed. Happy Birthday._

_Yours,_

_Kita Shinsuke_

The words flicker in and out of his blurred vision. “I see,” he says but even he’s self-aware enough to know that is a lie. 

It was an attempt at distance. His efforts were in vain. Like a stubborn flower, growing in between concrete lines.

He’s never interacted with married couples outside of his own family and the few times he’s spent with others during long evenings of the harvest or local festivals. Do married couples usually decline confessions from perfect strangers to their significant others in the form of letters? Do they offer advice to instead profess their desires in person? 

Invite them into their bed?

“Forgive me if this is too personal a question, but how did ya two end up together?” Might as well start his questions at the beginning. 

Kiyoomi makes a sound in his throat. “It’s a long story,” he replies, and when their eyes meet, Shinsuke swears he sees the mask crinkle with a smile. 

The car in front of them honks. They’ve barely moved. 

He feels a rueful tug at his lips. “Seems we’ve got some time.” 

With that, Kiyoomi lets go of the wheel and folds his arms across his chest. “I’ve been in love with Atsumu since I was seventeen. Maybe just the idea of him, but I went to the Jackals because I knew he was there and I wanted to play with him again.” He takes a deep breath. “He was unavailable and couldn’t take a clue. It took months before I was able to work up the courage to ask him out and even then he thought we were just friends. He...” Kiyoomi trails off and _laughs._ It’s a legitimately strange sound—like a kettle wheezing. “He caught on eventually.”

Shinsuke frowns. That’s not how he imagined it going in his head. 

“Huh,” he allows. 

“He’s an idiot but I love him,” Kiyoomi tells him around a leftover chuckle. Not like Shinsuke can argue with that. With the statement, or the affectionate tone it’s told to him in. 

After a moment, he joins in on the laughter. 

There’s so many questions running through his mind, of the memories he wishes to know about. He wants to hear what Kiyoomi thinks about him. He wants to know more about Atsumu. He wants— 

He holds his tongue, because this too will be a memory. Best to hold onto it before the next one. 

_Maybe next time_ , he had promised Atsumu. And it wasn’t a lie, not even a half-truth. 

His hands won’t forget. He’s not worried they will. 

  
  


-

  
  


Atsumu pulls onto an unfamiliar dirt path, and frowns at his car’s GPS. That can’t be right. 

_“...Tsu-chan? You still there?”_

He taps the screen, his foot still on the brakes. “Still here, kaasan. Is Omi-kun gettin’ dressed?” 

He’d been on the phone with Kiyoomi’s okaasan for most of the ride from Kobe. She was full of opinions, like his own _ma’_ who he had just finished being talked down to as she touched up his roots. She rattles on about the location, the crafts table and the other models while his husband is still in the process of getting fitted in samples for the shoot. 

When Atsumu had asked her to accompany Kiyoomi in his absence, she was peeved. Mostly because they wouldn’t be able to talk shit about Kiyoomi together in person, but she was free from work and didn’t mind shooting the shit with him over the phone. An easy compromise. 

The call helps distract him from… well… the fact he was going on a date. Maybe. He still isn’t sure. He tries not to think about it too much or his heart just might get run over trying to get to Kita’s. 

She laughs suddenly. Her and Kiyoomi’s laughs are so startlingly similar that it catapults him out of the impending anxiety spike. _“He looks like a rambutan. Ha! Let me send you a photo.”_ Her nails clack through the car speakers. _“You’re on facebook right?”_

He snorts. “‘M not on facebook, kaasan. Send it to me on LINE.” He purses his lips as he double-checks the address Kita had sent him. A photo pops up. And yeah, Kiyoomi does kind of look like a tropical fruit in that fuzzy jacket. Red was never his color. “Delicious,” he chuckles and realizes he’s been stalling on the road for too long. “Hey, kaachan, I just got to…Kobe. But keep sendin’ me more pics, ya?” 

She whines her displeasure into the phone. _“Tell Mitsu-chan I say hello! I’ll make sure to send her gift with Kiyoomi this ti— Hey!”_ A pause, rustle, and suddenly a deep voice fills his ears. _“Text me, okay?”_

He smiles and looks down to his lap where Cat has been sleeping soundly. She was restless in the carrier, and he still felt guilty about her whole existence so he _really_ had no choice but to let her nap on his nice, expensive jeans. 

“Will do,” Atsumu agrees. “Love ya. Even if ya look like Elmo.” 

_“Fuck off,”_ Kiyoomi retorts and the speakers beep with the bluetooth call being disconnected. 

He switches gears and continues down the muddy road. The one upside of having his Land Cruiser was the advantage of four wheel drive. He’d always wanted four wheel drive, even if he had yet to use it. Kiyoomi still thinks it’s stupid, but who’s laughing now? 

The drive is nice—almost as calming as Kiyoomi’s okaasan’s high-pitched hyojun-go filling the car. The sweet scent of petrichor hits his nose when he rolls down the window a bit to check the temperature. A wind gust hits the trees and leftover rain droplets from this morning’s rainshower hit his windshield. 

He’s never been out this far in the foothills—only to Mount Rokko for school field trips and weekend hikes with his obaachan. The peak hangs in the distance, suspended from the sky with the fog covering its base. _Maybe one weekend they could…_

Cat stretches her paws out and her claws catch on the fabric of his jeans. She begins to purr and Atsumu nuzzles her head. He doesn’t know who he loves more for this happy accident: Kiyoomi for trying way too hard or Samu for inadvertently making all of this happen. 

Up the road, a figure waits. 

Kita leans against a steel fence, wearing a pair of dark, faded jeans and a tan canvas jacket. He waves, after seeing Atsumu pull up, and begins pushing the gate back for entry. 

Atsumu rolls down his window after he breaks in the driveway. The house is a little ways down and the leftover chill is enough for Cat to startle in his lap. “Get in!” he grins over his shoulder. 

Kita nods once after locking the gate and bounds to the left. The car door opens and he drops into the passenger seat with a shiver. “’S cold out,” he says. 

“How long ya been waitin’ there for me?” Atsumu cheekily asks as he shifts gears. 

Kita’s lips twitch. “Long enough.” The smile blossoms as he takes in the package waiting in Atsumu’s lap. “This her?” 

Atsumu chuckles and glances down. He lifts one delicate paw. “Nice to meet ya, Kita-san,” he greets in a high-pitched voice. Cat meows once, clearly annoyed. 

Oh, but that’s not as cute as the sound that leaves Kita’s mouth. He draws his head back in delighted laughter. It makes Atsumu’s chest constrict and expand with pleasure. It’s in his cheeks when his smile stretches to meet Kita’s and in the steady _thump thump_ that he’s becoming intimately familiar with.

Kita takes that one paw, and with it, Atsumu’s heart. 

  
  


-

  
  


Because Kita is a well-adjusted adult, he’s already taken the time to read up on acclimating a kitten to a new home. The essentials Atsumu had already brought with him in his car—too much to bring on a train—are placed in a corner of the living area that’s been sectioned off by makeshift fencing. The laundry area and bathroom would be too loud for her, Kita reasons and Atsumu nods his head sagely, thinking, _why the fuck didn’t we google any of this?_

He rattles off his newfound facts about cat territory etiquette as he leads Atsumu through his home and it all goes over his head as he takes in the knick-knacks and furniture that make up Kita’s life with childlike wonder. The kitchen area and its spotless counters glimmering in the sunset light peeking out from the clouds. The money tree in the hallway. 

Kita’s home is like stepping into a time capsule. The kotatsu sits on the tatami mats, bespeaking warmth and nostalgia for his own passed obaachan’s mountain home. Despite the chill from lack of insulation in the traditional structure, Atsumu sheds his jacket and sits with Kita there, feeling comfortable. He cranes his neck to try and glimpse into the rooms behind the screens, but even the slivers of space between the shoji aren’t enough to sate the greediness he feels. He can’t remember going to Kita’s home once in all the years he’s known him.

“Thanks again for takin’ the little guy in. Kiyoomi and I _really_ aren’t fit to be parents,” he says when he decides the silence has been slowly inflating like a balloon that’s about to pop awkward all over the place.

Kita holds Cat in his lap as she plays with his fingers. Atsumu’s kind of jealous of how fast she was taken with him but then again he stepped on her tail within an hour of knowing her… so he’s not really one to talk. 

“Thank ya for thinkin’ of me,” Kita responds kindly. “I’ve always wanted a cat. The strays by the greenhouse are too old to train fer huntin’ mice.”

Of course Kita would find a suitable job for his new charge. “Yer gonna train ‘im?”

He frowns. “I thought it was a female,” he points out and gently lifts her tail to double-check. 

“He-she-they-it,” Atsumu waves a hand through the air. “Gender’s a spectrum, ya know.” Better than explaining he’s gender-blind and Kiyoomi has a black hole for a heart.

Without missing a beat, Kita deadpans, “I suppose I should name them something neutral then.” 

He looks up at Atsumu. 

And Atsumu can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. He and Kiyoomi are such _losers._ Kita joins in and it feels oddly cathartic, like all the nerves he had built up and tried to ignore on the way over are slowly crumbling through the delirium he feels with the realization alone of, _I’m sitting in Kita-san’s living room_. 

His mouth opens for a witty retort but what comes out is: 

“I _really_ wanna kiss ya right now.” 

It breaks the spell. The easygoing nature of this visit suddenly falls into his lap like Cat—a crazy idea, backed by panicked assumptions. Yeah, he and Kiyoomi had talked about it. But Kita’s input was as loud as the gaping silence he left in the midst of the week of thought he had tormented Atsumu with. 

Kita inhales a sharp breath. “Atsumu,” he begins. 

_Atsumu._

He gulps around the suddenly frigid air. 

“Please ignore that,” he begs.

Kita stands. He moves across the room to place the kitten in her little nook and she retreats into the corner, unsure of her new surroundings. Atsumu has never felt more kinship with an animal before. 

When he sits back down on the floor, he squares his shoulders and turns to Atsumu. “Can I be frank?” 

“Sure,” Atsumu agrees, terror straightening his spine. 

Kita sighs. “I… I enjoyed myself. But…” 

Atsumu’s stomach drops.

“... it… it’s difficult for me to accept yer feelings. Yer _married_ and I’ve liked ya since I was a teen. Do ya see the difficult position I’m in?” 

The elation at hearing his desire returned verbally threatens to blow out of his ears, but it’s overshadowed by the need to take Kita by the hand and profess over and over how much he wants him now that he’s had a taste. More than that, he wants to learn why there’s figurines on shelves by his genkan, or what the photo albums under the old television hold in their depths. What does he read? 

“Kita-san…” 

Kita snorts mirthlessly. “I think we’re past the point of ya calling me that.”

“Sh-Shinsuke-san…” and it comes out like a hot breath. It warms his chilled bones. He wants to wrap Ki— _Shinsuke_ up in it, to envelop him in the heat he feels when he holds his gaze. “I’m fallin’ for ya. _I_ know it. _Kiyoomi_ knows it and he doesn’t mind.” He pauses. “Do _ya_ not know that?” 

Shinsuke’s gaze hardens. Atsumu is familiar with that look.

“Ya hardly _know_ me,” he argues sternly.

Atsumu frantically nods. “Yah, and yer right. I don’t really know the you now. But I want ta’. _So bad._ And I already feel like I’m gettin’ in deeper just lookin’ at ya. _”_ He takes a deep breath. “Does that make me stupid?” 

“Yes,” Shinsuke replies immediately.

It’s hard enough to maintain eye contact with a reprimand like that, so Atsumu drops his gaze to his palms, wrung together tightly in his lap. There’s fresh skin that’s scabbed over his thumb. He flicks the callous roughly. 

“Sorry then,” he mumbles. 

There’s movement in his periphery. Instead of looking up into a honeysuckle gaze that suggests aloof detachment or cool empathy, Shinsuke tips his chin up with a finger as he leans over the table with fiery eyes. Instead of asking, _can I kiss ya?_ Shinsuke says, “don’t apologize. I don’t have the history you and Kiyoomi-kun have. I need some time. Think ya can give me that?” 

Shinsuke is close enough that the smell of sandalwood and lemongrass that lingers on his skin fills his nose, consuming his senses. He licks his lips and nods. 

“Good boy,” Shinsuke praises and thumbs his moist bottom lip. 

_Jesusfuckingchristshitonastick._

“Don’t… _tease_ me,” Atsumu warns tersely, stamping down on the immediate reaction to jerk his head away. Shinsuke’s grip is gentle, but the command he has over Atsumu is stronger than before, than it ever was. He tries to keep his cool in the face of that fact, knowing that his jeans feel tighter and his face _a lot_ hotter. It’s like he’s in a daze, struggling to form coherent thoughts. The only one he has is bouncing across the walls inside his mind going: _good boy good boy good boy._

Shinsuke hums. His eyes flick across the flushed skin, mapping the reaction unfolding on Atsumu’s face with silent concentration. Slowly, another smile makes itself known on his face. Unlike the sugary pleasant grins from before, this one is sinister. This one causes shivers. This one ruins Atsumu.

“Kiyoomi-kun spoils ya,” Shinsuke tells him casually, and the thumb swipes once more before he retracts his hand altogether. “I think ya can do with a bit more discipline.” 

With that fucking _wild_ thought, he straightens and claps his hands once. “Now I believe ya owe me dinner.” 

  
  


-

  
  


As soon as Atsumu gets home, he calls Kiyoomi. It’s late, but he’s been nursing the hardest boner of _his life_. It was very nearly a driving hazard, nearly rear-ending several cars when he adjusted himself in his seat.

It takes about three rings too long for Kiyoomi to answer. He’s already unzipping his jeans when he finally picks up groggily with, _“Tsumu? What’s wrong?”_

 _Everything_. “Nothin', baby. Just wanted to hear yer voice. How’d the rest of the shoot go?” He kicks the material off with a loud huff, struggling through his right leg before abandoning it in a heap on the floor by the bed. Kiyoomi is taking the first shinkansen in the morning, so he’ll have to pick it up tonight instead of stumbling out of bed to clean up before his arrival. Right now all he wants to focus on is trying to get his shirt off with one hand. 

_“Mm. Went okay, I think. I hate doing these during the season. I’m pretty tired.”_

“Yeah?” Atsumu prompts. He’s fluffing the pillow now, getting comfortable. He settles and asks as he runs a hand across the front of his thong—he was _planning_ on getting lucky tonight; what a spectacular failure of a seduction _that_ was—“ya too tired to talk?” 

There’s a rustling of sheets, like he’s sitting up in bed. _“What happened?”_

He grips his cock with a moan. “ _Shit._ Cat did well—They were cute—I honestly can’t… _fuck!_ He said ya spoiled me. That I needed _discipline._ Can ya believe ‘im?” Atsumu sure can’t. His dick _really_ can’t. It throbs painfully under the skimpy fabric.

Kiyoomi hums and there’s another rustle. _“You_ are _a spoiled brat.”_

“Fuck,” he swears and decides he can’t even stand teasing himself at this point. He almost rips the fragile elastic band getting his underwear off. “Tell me how spoiled I am. _Enlighten_ me.” 

More rustling. Where was he at? A fucking ball pit? 

Kiyoomi breathes into the phone mic. _“You expect me to get you off right now? You couldn’t even wait twelve hours for me to get home. Sounds pretty spoiled to me.”_

“Yeah?” he asks. His hand doesn’t even compare to Shinsuke’s. That reminds him. “He told me to call ‘im by his first name too.” 

_“I was first,”_ Kiyoomi counters competitively. 

“Suck a dick,” he retorts while he palms himself, but he’s not that wet yet. He fumbles around Kiyoomi’s pillow for the lube that sleeps there with him. “Ya two are the worst.” 

_“But you like that_.” 

“But I _love_ it. Ya fuckin’ trained me, asshole.” When the lube is nice and warm, he grabs himself roughly, tugging the foreskin down and thumbing his exposed head with a whine. The slippery sounds carry over the speakers and a familiar groan of approval tickles his ear. 

Atsumu closes his eyes. It’s not hard to imagine the heat of Shinsuke’s hand, or his lips on his cheek when he had bid him farewell for the evening. 

“God, he was so sexy when he said that,” Atsumu confides. 

_“Tell me… how he said it.”_

He holds the phone against his cheek as he uses his other hand to tug on his balls. “He… _ah_. He said, ‘get to know me if ya want me. Think ya can do that?’ _”_ He licks his lips again, selfishly hoping in vain that Shinsuke’s finger was still there just so he can _bite it_. “And when I nodded, he said, ‘good boy’. And shit if I didn’t almost come on the spot.” 

Kiyoomi pauses whatever he’s doing on his end. _“Wait. I thought... when did he say when you were spoiled? I’m confused.”_

“Jesus—” he’s so strung out that he can’t even keep up with this conversation. “B-baby, just tell me I’m _bad_. I’m really fuckin’ _bad._ And hard. I’m about to bust a nut over here thinkin’ about ya and Shinsuke-san tag-teamin me, punishin’ me for how _bad_ I’ve been.” 

There’s a curse. Atsumu pulls harder on his balls so the pain sharpens the pleasure until it’s all he can focus on. He moans louder into the phone speaker to _really_ drive the feeling home. He just wishes he had another hand so he can fuck himself on it.

 _“You’re such a slut. Shinsuke-san’s right. You really are spoiled. You’d like that too much. Taking both of our cocks at the same time.”_ He hears Kiyoomi’s smile when he says, _“you’d scream and cry like a bitch in heat.”_

“Fuck. _Fuck. Baby.”_ His hand moves at a speed he’s only ever known in his teenage years—when Samu would sluff on over to the Lawsons down the street for homework snacks. It was a two minute walk there, two minutes of picking out pudding and three minutes leisurely walking back. Atsumu had his jerk off sessions down to the _second_. He timed it.

He also timed Samu’s long showers just to be a prick, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Yeah I want it. Want ya both,” he pants. “Wanna be good for ya.” 

_“You’d have to learn to shut that loud mouth of yours. Think Shinsuke-san would shut you up with his cock?”_

“Please… please,” he begs, but totally forgot what for. He’s imagining swallowing someone’s dick while he rides another. Bodies blur into one another until they’re undistinguishable and vague. Only the _slap slap_ of heady sex and the _slurp_ of his mouth hold true in this fragile dream. 

_“You’ll take him so well, Tsumu. Ah—_ fuck— _you want to be a good boy for us?”_ Kiyoomi groans, his own fist making obscene sounds in Atsumu’s left ear. “ _Then come for us, Atsumu.”_

Atsumu comes. He can’t stop coming—it vibrates in every centimeter of his skin, all of his pores standing erect with the intensity of it. He’s only half-aware that the same intensity is being ripped from his throat. His spine arches as white ribbons paint his chest. It’s unclear if Kiyoomi is coming, but he better be, with all the noise Atsumu is making in his ears. 

The last of his spunk dribbles down his length to accompany the pool of it on his stomach. He feels like he’s breathing for the first time since he saw Shinsuke waiting by that gate. 

Kiyoomi grabs his post-phone-coitus relief by the balls and demands, “ _did you get anything on the sheets?”_

He tries not to move too much as he surveys the surrounding duvet. He’s good. “We’re good,” he confirms. He moans as he lets go of his softened cock. “Wish ya were here to clean me up though.” 

_“Spoiled,”_ Kiyoomi mutters. 

Atsumu chuckles low in his throat, like how Kiyoomi likes. “But ya like me like that, don’tcha?” 

Rustling and then, _“mmm. Did you have fun, at least? Sexual tension, aside.”_

He thinks about it. Once Shinsuke had cleared up their shit show of feelings, he did find himself smiling more freely. Shinsuke was good company and a great conversationalist. 

They had ended up going to a ramen stall on one of the main drags near the dirt road leading to the farmland. Shinsuke favored their miso ramen and looked so cute with flushed cheeks under the warm lights sitting at the bar. They talked about the upcoming harvest and the Falcons game. When they had finished, Atsumu drove him back and Shinsuke had leaned over in his seat to give him that one peck on the cheek. He would be in Osaka when the harvest was over.

It took some fumbling, but the images of Kita and Shinsuke had finally begun to overlap. Kita was the man in Atsumu’s mind, a phantom clinging to the skin of a high-schooler he had respected, admired and desired from afar. Kita was aloof. Shinsuke was a farmer with a sharp sense of humor. Shinsuke was generous with his kind smiles. Less could be said about Kita. 

But they were the same person, no longer memories or fantasies. 

“We talked a lot. It was good, though. He’s comin’ to Osaka in a few weeks once the harvest is over. He has meetin’s with a few of his clients before he starts processin’ and deliverin’.” He scratches his chin. “I think Samu buys from him too. I should ask ‘im about that.” 

_“Are him and Suna-kun still not talking?”_

He grabs a tissue—pauses and grabs another _three_ —to clean himself up. He bites his lip. “Not sure. Haven’t asked since he was busy with Suna’s kid sister visitin’ on Wednesday.” 

Kiyoomi sleepily hums. “ _That’s right. Still, you should probably message him.”_ He yawns and asks, _“is Shinsuke-san staying with us again?”_

Atsumu smiles. It’s genuine, unadulterated glee, because that was the moment that had propelled him home, fantasies fueled for the days until Shinsuke’s next arrival. “Yeah,” he confirms, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Go to sleep, baby. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow.” 

_“Mmm.”_ He doesn’t hang up. 

He stands on shaky legs to throw the bundle of tissues in the bathroom bin. “What?” he asks with a snicker, curious as to why Kiyoomi hasn’t already pushed his favorite red button. 

Kiyoomi makes that noise again and Atsumu outright laughs in realization. He knows what that means, no matter how much Kiyoomi denies it.

“Ya want me to tell ya how much I love ya?” he asks sweetly.

Silence. 

He takes a deep breath. 

A tiny inhale in response. 

_“I love you,”_ he whispers, mimicking Kiyoomi’s Yamanote accent, dropping his voice down several decibels. “Now go to bed, ya scrub.” 

_“Tch,”_ is the last thing he hears before Kiyoomi disconnects the call. 

  
  


-

  
  


The days get longer as the weeks roll by, even if the sun ducks behind Osaka Bay even quicker; the long shadows casting their afternoons in burnt oranges. The cloudy days begin to blur together. 

The fall usually brings gloom for Kiyoomi—it’s a natural cycle for him just as true as the changing weather. However, this year isn’t marked by the silent _(loud)_ footfalls ghosting across the hardwoods as Atsumu tries to appease Kiyoomi’s growing distaste for getting out of bed on their November off days. 

No, Kiyoomi doesn’t have the time to fall into his habit. His mind stays focused on an indeterminable goal, squinting to see into the distance. 

This season is marked by questions: who, what, when, where… _how_ being the one that stands in the forefront of Kiyoomi’s mind like the middle blockers of the Falcons and Kanagawa. Tall, looming and unable to attack it strike head-on. Strategy is required. 

The season is full of new beginnings, strong recruits and blossoming relationships.

Practice goes long into the night days before their matches. Tuesday night at Aran and Anisa’s gets pushed back in the midst of their pregame hustle. Next Wednesday? No, PT appointment. The weekend after? Anisa’s got a relative visiting from out of town. How about next Saturday after the Hornets post-game review session? 

Kiyoomi, in the middle of his post-practice stretches, two weeks after the Falcons game and just coming down from the victory against VC Kanagawa, freezes up.

He can easily answer Aran’s question with the truth—he’s been hardwired for easy bluntness since he’s learned to open his mouth and form words. 

The truth: Shinsuke will be coming over and staying with them for two days so he can conduct his business in Osaka. Also, so he can spend some time with Atsumu… 

(And maybe engage in a lot of sexual intercourse with the both of them.)

Across the court, Atsumu is still rallying with Shion and Adriah; easy, relaxed bumps and sets. Their ritual started with Shion cooling down with Meian after their individual practices with the trainers. Shion only ever worked himself at two hundred percent diving all over the secondary court for errant spikes and their former captain took it upon himself to help Shion cooldown slowly, and in the way that still kept his mind sharp. Adriah had joined in because he was a golden retriever when it came to Meian and Shion. Atsumu was only ever with them because he was an attention hog and had a thing for older men.

Kiyoomi watches them and thinks about partnerships. Seasons. Rituals. The flow of a game. _Who, what, where, when… how._

He wants to talk to Atsumu. There’s relative synchronicity between the two of them even in silence, through gestures and looks, but right now that’s not enough. There’s an apprehension lingering in his bones without knowing how to distinctly label the events following their subsequent threesome. 

He breaks them up into facts for easier comprehension: Atsumu loves Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi loves Atsumu _(ew)_. Atsumu likes Shinsuke, who was probably his first love. Shinsuke likes Atsumu back, who was also probably his first love. 

Whenever he moves past that initial level of acceptance, however, things start getting murky. It’s like a large question mark looming over all of their heads— _what are we?_ If he’s judging their relationship by the frequency of outgoing messages from Atsumu to Shinsuke, then he would say they are in the midst of some discombobulated, backwards courtship.

(Atsumu shows him the messages and when Kiyoomi asks if he was ever this technologically dependent during their own humble beginnings, rolls his eyes and mutters, _Ya don’t even know._ That makes him feel better about the blue light bothering him at night.)

Before any sort of conversation happens outside of their… _trio_ , Kiyoomi first needs clarification. And with Shinsuke’s arrival waiting for them at the end of the week’s finishing line, they need to come up with a game plan. 

They need to talk to Shinsuke, as a combined front.

Aran coughs, drawing Kiyoomi back to the present.

Maybe it’s all the years he’s spent with Atsumu—the act of lying written into his biomolecular vocabulary—that he’s able to brush off these thoughts with a practiced look. Like he just spent the last fifty-three seconds mentally checking his schedule and not the state of the polyamrous relationship he’s now finding himself in. 

“Maybe next Thursday?” he asks after a moment.

“Okay, but that one’s gotta stick,” Aran laughs with all the easy affability of one of the most stable personalities in the V League. Kiyoomi likes Aran for that. He thinks the same sentiment is returned, with a gratitude at Kiyoomi’s relative maturity compared to the twins _(hardly a metric worth measuring maturity levels)_. “Anisa and I will get the ingredients for the _gago-gado_ so ya two can’t back out.” 

Kiyoomi nods as he spins his wrist in his hand, having nothing left to say other than some lingering questions about the safest way to prepare something with a name like _gado-gado_. Aran smiles, refrains from patting his back (as per request) and heads in the direction of the locker room presumably to take his shower. 

He looks back over to the rally turned gossip session. Atsumu’s eager eyes. He’s thrumming with excitement and it _shows_. It showed during the games— _shined_ even. His legs limber and his plays downright dangerous. Atsumu has been on fire, and his game is all the more better for it. 

A pang of jealousy trickles down Kiyoomi’s throat like the beginnings of a cold and he reels away from it in disgust. The seasons don’t affect Atsumu like they do Kiyoomi, he tries to rationalize. Or maybe it’s because Shinsuke is becoming an even more important part of his life as the shadows grow longer. Self-consciously, he thinks, _did I not make you happy?_

But it’s more than that. 

This is a well-loved Atsumu, meter full. 

With that shift in perspective, his focus sharpens. He takes it in like medicine for that foul-tasting post-nasal drip. Like the first sunny day after two weeks of rain, the image in the distance clears. 

  
  


-

  
  


Shinsuke arrives with two knocks. 

Which, Atsumu thinks, kind of makes the fancy, electronic doorbell he was granted permission by the landlord to install during his DIY phase, kind of useless. 

Kiyoomi, finishing up the _oden_ recipe he learned from Samu’s chef friend from Himeji, gives him a look. _I told you so._ Shinsuke is the sixth visitor to have ignored the contraption. 

“Fuck off,” he mutters. He claps his cheeks and gets a whiff of the aftershave. Still smells like jasmine and mint. Good. Wait. Did he put deodorant on?

“He’s going to leave if you don’t hurry up.”

“ _Okay,_ okay, I got it.” 

He takes a really deep breath before stumbling down the hall to answer the door. 

And promptly gets it knocked right out of him. 

“A-are those... _flowers?”_ he asks when he’s able to find his voice. 

Standing there, wearing that same black button up from their coffee shop date, now tucked into a very flattering pair of gray slacks and snuggled under a worn wool coat, is Shinsuke. He holds a bouquet up to Atsumu as an offering, his face flushed from the gusty wind outside presumably. 

“These are fer ya and Kiyoomi-kun.”

Atsumu takes the flowers, his lips still parted. His own flush is creeping up from the sweater he wears.

No one has ever gifted him flowers before. He remembers white chrysanthemums from his otousan’s funeral when he was a kid and plants gifted to him from Kiyoomi when they were first dating (which he then later killed). It tugs at his chest until he feels an unnameable swell threatening to rock his already fragile self-control.

“Can I come in?”

That shakes Atsumu out of his reverie. “S-sorry. Yah, absolutely.” He brings the flowers up to his nose as he steps to the side. His Dior aftershave has nothing on the fresh scent the flowers emit. 

Shinsuke mumbles, “ _pardon for the intrusion,”_ as he closes the door and sets down his black duffle to take off his boots and shrug out of his coat. He doesn’t look as nervous as his first time arriving, but it’s close. 

Atsumu takes the coat and hangs it up. They look at each other. 

They had been messaging each other with increasing frequency, trying to jam the past ten years into three weeks worth of back and forths. Sometimes it was just _what are you doing right now?_ And Atsumu sending, _i put on this record to clean and thought of u_. Shinsuke was a much better texter than Kiyoomi was when they first started dating. 

So when their straight faces start to crack, Atsumu takes a step at the same time Shinsuke does. They meet somewhere in the middle of ten years. Amagasaki and Osaka. The past and future; tomorrow, not yesterday. 

“I missed ya,” Atsumu confesses against Shinsuke’s silky tresses. He smells like public transport and the lemon air freshener of a taxi, but with another deep inhale, he can pick up on the fresh earthy musk that he’s starting to believe is something that’s not manufactured and sold in a bottle. 

Against Atsumu’s neck, Shinsuke breathes in just as deeply. “I missed ya too.” 

“Ya hungry?”

“Mm. Ya. Haven’t eaten since this mornin’. Busy packin’ and gettin’ the cat situated.”

Atsumu chuckles and pulls away to pick up his duffle. “C’mon. Omi’s makin’ _oden_. That’ll get us nice and warm.”

  
  


-

  
  


Dinner is a surprisingly comfortable affair. The bouquet of bluebells and roses sits at the center, acting like some sort of buffer in their humble beauty. Around hearty bites of daikon and tofu, Shinsuke regales to them the trials and tribulations of being a rice farmer during harvesting season, and the even harder profession of being a new pet owner. 

They offer him a glass of wine since they choose not to drink during the season (the infamous birthday being the _one_ exception) and watch in envy as he takes a first sip and comments its deliciousness. 

Around them, a bubble forms. 

And then pops.

“We need to talk,” Kiyoomi announces as they all settle in the living room after the meal. He sits on the couch and gestures for Shinsuke to join him.

He does. “I agree,” says Shinsuke with his glass of wine still in hand. 

Atsumu, having finally chosen a record that suits the sexy, Grownup Conversation vibe that he said he was aiming for, lowers the volume of the speakers until the bossa nova tune thrums out a comfortable atmosphere. 

He walks over to the couch and before sitting in the middle of them, asks, “can I go first?” 

Kiyoomi spreads his legs with that same practiced ease that got them into the situation in the first place. The couch holds many memories, but this one is by far the most visceral, the most important; no longer inconsequential. He falls into Kiyoomi’s embrace, turning to Shinsuke.

“I’m listening,” Shinsuke says, eyes fixated on the two people in front of him. He sets down his wine glass on the coaster tile sitting on the coffee table without being prompted to. 

Atsumu takes a deep breath. The floor is his. The only two people he’s ever wanted are in front of him, waiting expectantly for him to state his desires. And after so many days of pondering that one seemingly irrelevant night of his life, does he feel like he now know what he wants. 

“I want to date ya, Shinsuke-san,” he begins and tries not to notice the shake in his hands. “I want to visit ya and get ya coffee. I want to learn what ya want and why ya want it. And I want ya to feel comfortable comin’ here whenever ya want. Not just for sex but just whenever yer lonely or ya feel like it.”

“Overkill on the _wants,_ ” Kiyoomi mutters. 

“I have Cat now, so I’m not lonely,” adds Shinsuke.

“Oh, you’re keeping that stupid name?” Kiyoomi casually questions.

“I’m waitin til she’s of age to give her a new one,” he deadpans.

“I swear,” Atsumu begins, flushed, “the _one_ time _I’m_ serious ya two both start mouthin’ off like pansies. I take it all back. I hate both of ya and I want a divorce.” He moves to get off Kiyoomi in an angry huff.

Kiyoomi grabs at his waist to keep him planted where he’s at. “We heard you. Shinsuke-san?”

Shinsuke nods. “I… agree to those terms. Kiyoomi-kun?”

“I want Atsumu to be happy,” Kiyoomi says as his long fingers begin to scratch at Atsumu’s scalp in silent apology. “But I want to know when he sees you and I expect updates from either of you when he’s gone.” Atsumu leans back onto his chest eager for him to keep up his ministrations. His fingers pause. “If I know what’s happening then I won’t have any problems.”

Shinsuke nods his head once. “I think we can manage that.” 

Bouncing back from the embarrassment, Atsumu kicks his legs up onto the couch, nudging his socked feet against Shinsuke’s thigh. The latter raises his eyebrow but he doesn’t show any sign of moving away. 

“Ya two are both sexy when ya tell me what to do. _And not_ when yer makin’ fun’a me,” he feels like pointing out, closing his eyes to savor the heat of their bodies. 

After a beat, Shinsuke asks, “and the sex?” 

Kiyoomi hums. “My previous statement applies. But if we’re making rules, then you always have to wear a condom. And... feel free to send me pictures.”

“Like I said,” Atsumu purrs against his chest. “Sexy.”

“Are you clean?” Kiyoomi asks. 

Shinsuke nods.

“Good.”

His legs are lifted until they’re resting on Shinsuke’s lap as he edges closer to them, and by extension, the core of their conversation. “I’ll want alone time with Atsumu more often than not. I’m not averse to playin’ together, if schedules permit, however.”

Atsumu giggles. “Fuck, say playin’ again.” 

That earns a chuckle from Shinsuke as he rubs his calf. “Shameless. He’s real spoiled, Kiyoomi-kun.”

At that, Kiyoomi finally cracks one of his soft smiles when Atsumu looks up to gauge his reaction. “He really is,” Kiyoomi agrees. “He told me how much he liked when you said that.”

“Did he now...” Shinsuke remarks, his grip on his leg getting firmer by the second.

“T-that was,” Atsumu swallows, feeling disoriented. He could totally deny it, but where’s the fun in that? “That was _really_ hot.”

Kiyoomi hums. “It was. Feel free to take the reins if you feel like it. I tend to lean more… dominant in the bedroom but only because Atsumu is a natural when it comes to submitting.” 

_Oh._

His jeans are suddenly uncomfortable, but more than his physical body taking the form of arousal personified, he’s feeling content. Kiyoomi really loves him. The suggestion alone of trusting Shinsuke to manage the both of them… 

Atsumu can’t think any more about it. He’ll come in his pants. The suspense is going to kill him. And probably make him jizz while it happens.

It takes another few seconds before Shinsuke finally responds. “I’ll take ya up on that. Tonight, in fact. If ya don’t mind.”

“Safe words,” Atsumu feels pressured to point out. Specifically, the pressure in his underwear. 

“Green, yellow, red?” 

“Might be confusing when there’s three of us,” Kiyoomi comments. “If anyone calls ‘time out’, we can pause and talk about it. It could be a question, maybe logistics. I don’t know how comfortable I feel actually _using_ them tonight, though. Maybe we can start small first and revisit new systems later. Also,” Kiyoomi feels the need to mention like an _asshole_ , “Atsumu is color blind and can’t always tell red from green.”

“Ah, that’s… right. How did ya get yer license?” 

“Time out!” Atsumu tries as he sits up. “No makin’ fun of my drivin’ skills in the bedroom. That’s my rule.” He leans back and makes a gesture with his hand. “Continue.” _The traffic lights are all in the same spot anyways_ , he thinks petulantly. 

“Sure,” Shinsuke agrees easily. Kiyoomi pats his thigh. 

The sounds of the bossa nova playing filter back into his consciousness. He racks his mind for untouched conversation points but Shinsuke and Kiyoomi have always been smarter than him. He’ll wait. He already said his piece and Kiyoomi and him have already had _many_ conversations in the shower leading up to tonight. If anything, he trusts Kiyoomi more than his own disgruntled horny mind right now.

Shinsuke brings a finger to his lips. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He looks at both of them, a nervous energy maring his features. The expression is so out of place on his face that Atsumu sits up straighter against Kiyoomi.

“And if anyone asks about us? What do we say?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“Whatever you’re comfortable sharing,” Kiyoomi answers without hesitation. “Atsumu and I like to maintain privacy in our public lives but generally speaking, we’re close with our teammates, so they know how much of a noisy bottom Atsumu is.” He bounces his knee, and with it, Atsumu. “Isn’t that right, puppy?” 

Atsumu blushes and thinks about that hotel in Saitama. The embarrassingly quick orgasm and the applause that followed. “Shut up.” 

He continues, “I can’t make any promises about anyone else _assuming_ anything but we’ll make sure to respect whatever wishes you have.”

Shinsuke taps his bottom lip twice. “Thank you. I’d like it to remain private for right now, if that’s fine with ya. It’s… unconventional and I’ll need some time adjusting to it.” 

“But ya want it?” Atsumu reaches out with his hand.

“But I want it.” Shinsuke takes it.

Looking at Shinsuke, feeling the affection weigh heavy in the warmth of his palm, Atsumu smiles. It feels like he’s floating on a cloud, soaring past the skies, untethered to the earth he’s always known. In between Shinsuke and Kiyoomi, Atsumu feels _liberated._

“If you want something,” Kiyoomi states, watching them lock their gazes in his periphery. “All you have to do is ask. That’s another rule.” 

Shinsuke smiles too.

“Can I kiss yer _puppy,_ Kiyoomi-kun?” he asks sweetly.

“Fuck,” Atsumu swears, the heat of it itching in his fingers.

“Sure,” Kiyoomi agrees. 

That’s all it takes for Atsumu to climb over onto Shinsuke’s lap and push him against the couch cushion—the pent up energy from their last meeting fueling his fervor like gasoline to a fire. He kisses Shinsuke brazenly, like he always wished he could back in the days of clubrooms and weekend practices. This time Shinsuke rises to meet him just as quickly and unrepentantly, a fervor kept trapped for however many years his desires had been locked away. His tongue licks inside, savoring the flavor of oden from Himeji, and underneath it: Shinsuke. 

Atsumu pulls away with teeth tugging at the bottom lip that Shinsuke favors. His hips jolt against the hardness filling out in Atsumu’s jeans.

Still sitting in his lap, he turns to Kiyoomi, probably looking as fucked up as he feels. He leans over and gives his husband one of those fast paced kisses that gets him all bothered. All open-mouthed tongue thrusting, and hands scratching and pulling at sensitive scalps. 

“Ya two are so sloppy,” Shinsuke observes. His tone is totally unbothered, almost chiding, like he didn’t just steal Atsumu’s breath away a second before. It completely contradicts the obscenity of his remark and makes Atsumu all the more reckless against Kiyoomi’s lips, canting against Shinsuke in search of a little friction. Shinsuke’s fingers play up and down his side, under the sweater, causing pleasant tingles to tickle up and down his spine.

They break apart and stare at each other. Kiyoomi looks dazed. Atsumu feels _exhilarated._

“Last rule,” he demands breathlessly, giving Kiyoomi one last peck. He turns to Kita and plants a quick one on him too, if only because he can. “Every agreement has gotta be sealed with a _kiss.”_

Kiyoomi and Shinsuke exchange glances. Atsumu has a thigh on both of their laps now, staring expectantly at the space between their faces. 

Slowly, Shinsuke leans forward first. Kiyoomi watches the distance between them close with a look of nervous suspense. Atsumu is almost worried he’s going to voice his disgust or outright refusal. 

His breath stutters as their lips meet, barely a gentle caress. Shinsuke’s hand hesitantly leaves Atsumu’s side to cup Kiyoomi’s cheek as he deepens it. 

It’s agonizingly slow. Time blinks in and out of existence as he watches the seconds tick by in real time, like wax dripping down a candle. The kiss is nothing like Atsumu’s insistent prodding or eager biting. Shinsuke’s mouth gently opens for Kiyoomi and their tongues lazily meet through the gap between their lips. Atsumu hears Kiyoomi’s muffled moan through the hands he has on both of their chests, their fluttering heartbeats underneath his fingertips as he grazes the collars of their shirts. 

They part for breath. 

Kiyoomi’s eyes flutter open. They’re blown when he finally looks away from Shinsuke. Atsumu has always liked his dark eyes, but right now he feels lost just looking at them—devoid of any of the brutal power he usually has over Atsumu but still unyielding in its hunger. Is this what he looks like after Kiyoomi kisses him? 

No, he thinks as Shinsuke’s left hand dips under the back of his shirt to play with the skin under his pants while his other still thumbs the soft skin of Kiyoomi’s red-speckled throat. He grins when Atsumu rolls his hips on his thigh.

That’s Shinsuke. 

“Since ya two had so much fun last time,” Shinsuke remarks as his fingers continue playing them—instruments he’s gaining fluency in—“how ‘bout ya let me have _my_ turn?” 

Atsumu is seconds from standing and completely stripping naked. He didn’t even know Shinsuke’s voice could _get_ that deep. 

Kiyoomi jerks his head once to show his eager agreement. 

He tsks once and lifts Atsumu off his lap. He plops back onto the couch next to Kiyoomi as Shinsuke stands and begins unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. “Use yer words Kiyoomi-kun, I won’t be able to read yer mind. That's a rule.” 

The control of his voice and the measured flicks of his wrist is enough for Kiyoomi’s adam’s apple to bob as he gulps in admiration. 

Atsumu runs a hand up his thigh to cup at his bulge. That startles Kiyoomi out of it. ”Yes,” he agrees verbally this time. 

“Yes, what?” 

Underneath his hand, it’s very obvious to Atsumu that Kiyoomi is affected by the tone Shinsuke uses as he grinds out somewhat painfully: “Yes, _sir.”_

“Good boy,” Shinsuke praises easily as he begins to roll up his sleeves with precise, straight folds. He turns to Atsumu who straightens from his slump against Kiyoomi immediately. “Now how ‘bout ya get naked and wait for me by the bed ‘Tsumu? I wanna talk to yer master.” 

_Fuck me_ , he wants to say. _Fuck me right here._

“S-sure,” he answers instead as he gets up, but Shinsuke grabs his wrist. 

Copper eyes meet startled hazel ones. His heart thunders in his chest as Shinsuke stares him down. Now _this_ look Atsumu has been on the end of more times than he can count. He feels sick with guilt already. It fizzles under his skin like a memory, and in this new context it gives him a _rush._

He ducks his head. “Yes sir.”

Kita gives his tush a gentle pat to send him on his way. _Where’s my good boy, huh?_

But Shinsuke is good at reading people. He wasn’t the type of captain that Atsumu and Kiyoomi were during high school. After having spent most of his athletic career off the court, his skills have been honed into penetrating scrutiny. One simple remark with just the perfect amount of reproach and commendation would be enough to lift anyone’s spirits or inspire wonder and thoughtfulness. He knew how to talk to the others without being simply agreeable. 

Shinsuke knows how to read people. 

Shinsuke knows how to _play_ people. 

And fuck if he isn’t excited to see where he takes them.

  
  


-

  
  


He sits _seiza-_ style next to the bed, shivering in the pleasant temperature of the room. He and Kiyoomi probably have only lived together for so long because they run _hot._ There are no winter blankets to pull out from closets for a good dusting. They sleep with a thin white duvet all year long to avoid overheating. They had a lousy swamp cooler in their old apartment and those two years were spent sleeping fitfully on nothing but a fitted sheet in their briefs and a spray bottle snuggled between them like a baby. If Kiyoomi slept too close to him, Atsumu would wake up and vice versa. Their sub-consciousness’ disliked the warmth cuddling offered. 

He shudders again. He’s not cold. 

He’s _excited._

Kiyoomi and Shinsuke stand next to him going through the black box full of Kiyoomi’s bondage gear. The white Gucci box that belongs to Atsumu—full of his massagers, dildos and plugs—sits on the bed untouched. 

He closes his eyes and counts to ten. His knees are beginning to ache. His cock _especially_ aches. It sits against his thigh, mostly hard as he envisions whatever scenario they have planned for him. 

“How’re ya feelin’ darlin’?” 

_Darlin’._

Atsumu _moans_. 

Shinsuke hums. He bends down and runs a hand through his hair. “I need ya to tell me if yer uncomrtable, okay?” he instructs in a low voice, “Even if it feels good.” 

“Yes... _sir.”_

“Good,” he says as he stands. “Kiyoomi-kun said yer mouthy and I’m countin’ on that, okay?” 

“Yes, sir,” he repeats. 

That earns a laugh from Shinsuke and it dances around his ribcage where the pain is starting to bloom. “If yer gonna be this compliant, then we probably won’t need the cuffs. Ain’t that right, Kiyoomi-kun?” Kiyoomi hums—the thoughtful one, not the anxious one.

“W-wait,” Atsumu starts, finally looking up at them with a pout. “I want them.”

They both watch his little display of defiance with amused glints in their eyes. Kiyoomi’s fingers twitch with undoubtedly the urge to _slap_. Shinsuke cocks his head to the side as he appraises him. He taps his lip.

He turns to Kiyoomi. “Let’s use the cuffs next time. I want ya to get undressed and restrain him from behind.” 

Atsumu reels back in shock. But… wasn’t that the point of the cuffs? What… 

“Can ya stand?” Shinsuke asks. 

He nods. “Yes, sir,” and does, as if he’s on choppy water, out at sea. 

Next to him, Kiyoomi leans closer to him like they’re exchanging quiz answers in the back of the classroom. “Wait for him to tell you what to do,” he warns. He shrugs off his knit sweater and unbuckles his belt. 

Atsumu gulps and nods once. 

“Stop spoilin’ ‘im,” Shinsuke scolds with crossed arms. Forget Professor Kiyoomi. Headmaster Kita can bend him over and rail him _any day._ “Now get on the bed. Lay on yer back and wait fer Kiyoomi-kun.” 

Atsumu does and watches his husband take off his black pants with robotic efficiency. Kiyoomi’s eyes stay on him like he’s about to jump out of his skin if he can’t get his hands on Atsumu in the next five seconds, Shinsuke’s instructions be damned. His thumbs hook the elastic band of his black boxer briefs. His erection springs free as he steps out of them, never wavering in his obvious want.

Atsumu spreads his legs wider, a grin threatening to pluck apart his composure. 

Shinsuke moves the boxes onto the floor, and sits in their previously occupied space. Atsumu watches his movements like prey. 

“Kiyoomi-kun told me ya liked to be talked down to,” Shinsuke tells him.

Atsumu nods his head once, anticipation causing his heart to _thump thump_ in the way it hasn’t before. “I do.” 

His calloused hand grabs his ankle, spreading him wider. Atsumu chokes on a startled moan and Shinsuke grins. “Ya look like a whore spreadin’ yer legs like that for ‘im.” His eyes flick over to Kiyoomi who waits patiently. How, Atsumu wonders, he will probably never know. Discipline. Which he apparently lacks. 

His dick twitches once. 

Done with his once-over Shinsuke lets go of his ankle and gestures for Kiyoomi to join them. Atsumu gets braced against his hard middle as he settles against the headboard. The curls on his chest tickle his ears. He nuzzles into it, drawing comfort in the familiar feeling. When he tries to move against him, Kiyoomi hisses—in warning or pleasure, he’s not sure but Kiyoomi’s cock is already so slick it feels too good _not_ to rub on. If he could just...

“Hold on tight,” Shinsuke commands. Kiyoomi grabs his arms with a bruising grip and tucks them between their bodies. Knees and ankles hook under his limbs with startlingly quick speed. He tests the grip by trying to pull away but Kiyoomi is... _slightly_ stronger. Not by much, but enough to feel the burn in his quads when he tries moving them against Kiyoomi’s. He groans. 

The first crack in Shinsuke’s composure happens then. Watching Atsumu struggle against Kiyoomi, his cock slapping against his stomach, Shinsuke makes a noise that Atsumu has never heard before. It sounds _animalistic._

He stands to grab the lube and condoms from the nightstand, tossing them onto the bed. The bed creaks as Shinsuke joins them, situating himself between four thighs. His hands resting on his bent legs, he stretches them wider. 

“Ya two look so good like this.” 

Fingertips, teasing caresses on his thighs.

Kiyoomi breathes in sharply, the air around Atsumu’s ear suddenly hot with his breath. He loves to tickle Atsumu’s inner thighs—they’re one of the most sensitive spots on his body. 

He closes his eyes and shudders through the featherlight sensations. 

Suddenly, there’s a hot mouth there, tongue laving the thin skin, teeth pinching the nerves. The next thigh is spoiled with the same treatment, leaving marks with the merciless attention. 

And Atsumu _keens_. 

Kiyoomi holds him tighter, hips moving against his back enough for the base of his cock to slide against the cleft of his ass. Atsumu wonders if the fierce hold is really even for him at this point, but tilts his hips to meet his husband’s regardless. 

“His ears are sensitive, ya?” Shinsuke asks, trailing kisses down to his shaking knees. “Fuck ‘em with yer togue.” 

Kiyoomi chuckles. “Yes, _sir,”_ he murmurs in the most _pleased_ rendition of _yessir_ that Atsumu’s ever heard. And fuck if his dick doesn’t just weep at that. 

He waits a moment with just a hot breath against the cartilage. 

A lick.

A nibble. 

And suddenly, he’s thrusting his whole tongue inside, wet heat causing Atsumu to shout. The combination of how ticklish it feels with how lewd the sounds engulf his hearing drives him wild. It’s so filthy, and the fact that Kiyoomi is licking inside—harsh breaths coming through his nose, sounding as wild as Atsumu feels—drives him fucking _mad._

That, combined with twin sensations of Shinsuke’s kitten licks inching up in thighs and fingers skimming the skin above his hip, almost makes him come.

His hips fly off the bed, but not before Shinsuke stops them with a forceful push. Of course, that means Kiyoomi’s cock is just _right there now._ Atsumu’s breath stutters in realization. 

“Fuck me,” he whimpers. “Fuck me, fuck me _fuckmeufuckme.”_

Kiyoomi chuckles in his ear. The sound of it, so condescending, so provocative, twists the arousal around in his abdomen like a a wrung out towel and he mewls, trying to move further away from Kiyoomi’s prodding tongue but finding the range of motion limited. Precome squirts out of him like a fountain. 

Kiyoomi moans at the sound, thrusting faster. 

Shinsuke’s second break in composure comes with rough grabs at his shirt, unbuttoning the rest of the material and tossing it to the side of the bed. The pants go next. His white briefs shucked like corn.

In the dim lighting, Atsumu wanders the plains of his body like he didn’t just eat. Strong shoulders and toned pectorals. The smidgen of softness around his middle and the cushion of his hips. His uncut cock, hardened in excitement. The hand, full of contradictions, as it comes to pleasure himself right in front of Atsumu’s hooded eyelids. The sadistic grin as he meets his gaze. 

“Ya want me to touch ya, Tsumu?” Shinsuke asks, his hand still moving up and down his member in precise strokes. So different than _can I touch ya, Atsumu?_

He looks just as good as someone with a body like Kiyoomi’s. A classical painting. A greek god. He shuts his eyes.

“Wan’ ya to touch me _…_ wanna… _come,”_ he pleads, thrusting his hips with every punctuation.

Kiyoomi unsuctions himself from his ear and catches his breath around his earlobe. His own quads flex as he searches for movement. 

“Do… do ya think he’s been a good boy, Kiyoomi-kun? Do ya think he should be allowed to come before we do?” Shinsuke chuckles. “Without even asking for permission?”

Kiyoomi nuzzles his neck. “No.”

_Asshole._

“P-please?” he tries.

“Is that how ya usually beg Kiyoomi? No wonder yer a brat.”

Kiyoomi huffs. _Fuck._

 _“Please_ fuck me. Please. _Please,”_ he exclaims in a rush. He tries hiding in Kiyoomi’s neck, but the angle is too awkward—his body on display for Shinsuke’s pleasure.

Shinsuke grabs the bottle of lube and gives it a few loud pumps. Everyone waits in bated breath, chest heaving with anticipation. 

Two fingers swipe at the slick substance cupped in his hand. 

And Shinsuke: 

“No," he says. "Yer gonna fuck _me._ ” 

His fingers travel to his behind. He moans as he begins prepping himself with practiced movements. Something snaps in Atsumu. 

“Shit,” Kiyoomi curses, _also_ mid-snap. “Hand me the lube.” 

Shinsuke does and his husband wastes no time pushing Atsumu off him. Even with the kilos of muscle clinging to his frame, Kiyoomi handles him like a limp rag doll, pinning him on his stomach to the mattress and grabbing a fistful of ass to make room for his prodding fingers. The usual index finger becomes two long digits thrusting into him with reckless abandon. Atsumu chokes on spit and grabs at their backup (sex) sheets.

“I know you prepped yourself for this. You took so long in the shower.” Two quickly becomes three, _purposefully_ avoiding his prostate. “Tell me what you were thinking about.” 

Atsumu glances over his shoulder at Shinsuke, who smirks, pleased. The image of him stroking himself and plunging into himself will be taken to his grave. 

Kiyoomi’s backhand comes down _hard_ , with just enough of his fingertips to _sting._ Tears prick at his eyes and he ducks into the sheets. “S-sorry,” he mumbles. 

Another hand is going to come down, he’s already mentally preparing himself for it, when Shinsuke’s voice tickles the edge of his consciousness. “Don’t ruin ‘im. I haven’t gotten a turn yet.” 

Atsumu really _does_ cry then. 

Kiyoomi hums—the annoyed one. He works quickly and it isn’t all that pleasurable for Atsumu, who only takes comfort in the notion of being full. Sated. That in the next few minutes he’s about to be _fucked_ _into next week._

The fingers retreat with a sigh. Kiyoomi asks, “how did you want to do this?” 

Shinsuke wipes his fingers on his thigh. He nods his head at the headboard. “Laying down might be easiest. Back to back to front?” 

“Sure,” Kiyoomi agrees and settles behind Atsumu without question. “I want to watch,” he says by explanation. 

Shinsuke tosses him a condom with his cleaner hand and settles in next to Atsumu’s face with another one. If Atsumu blinks, will Shinsuke vanish? He blinks. 

Shinsuke tears the packet with his teeth and smiles. It ruins him all over again. “Yer not allowed to come until I do. ‘Member that.” 

Atsumu nods, but truly, he isn’t sure he’s capable of such a momentous feat. He and Kiyoomi are both horndogs that get it on at least twice a week, but all of that stamina training hasn’t braced him for the fantasy taking the form of reality: Shinsuke rolling a condom onto his leaking cock, muttering to himself, _yer so wet for us_ and then lubing him up, positioning the heat between his thighs. Kiyoomi’s member already impatiently rubbing himself against his balls. His leg hoisted in the air and Shinsuke’s foot snaking its way between his and Kiyoomi’s. Shinsuke kissing him; Kiyoomi nibbling on his neck.

Between Shinsuke and Kiyoomi, Hirakata and Kitano, the past and the future— 

  
  


“Ready?” Kiyoomi asks. 

Shinsuke nods. “Together.”

  
  


(—Atsumu comes first.)

  
  
  
  
  


_Fin._

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah it's over finally! A BIG shout out to those who propelled me forward on this journey through kind words (looking at u [nish](https://mobile.twitter.com/saaadgirrrl)) 
> 
> to all the people for their kudos & comments & bookmarks - thanks for sticking around. no, seriously. i hope u enjoyed the ride!! stay tuned for the next stop on this journey: france !!!!!! (& also my skts sex tape fic which is completely unrelated lol). 
> 
> on that note, i wish u all happiness & love & good vibes. 
> 
> adieu y'all ! xx
> 
> [follow me on twit for updates!](https://mobile.twitter.com/dindie__)
> 
> [TNY playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ATVKQAgObmFJgDMsqZpJW?si=SKeCO0oMSYir7AdwqcJrcg)


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